


The Devil You Know

by caffeineivore, elianthos



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Demon/Human Relationships, Demonology, Detective Noir, Estranged Parents, F/M, Fanart, Fanfiction, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Innuendo, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, Snark, Undead, charlie is chaotic evil, demon zoisite, detective jadeite, dirty politicians, epilogue takes it to an m rating, legendary creatures, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianthos/pseuds/elianthos
Summary: Detective Jake Langdon has a long-standing tolerance for the demon at his shoulder-- literally, since said demon has mostly refrained from destructive mayhem. It even helps solve crimes on occasion. And then the murder of a wealthy politician lands on his desk, called in by the dead man’s beautiful but estranged daughter. Who killed the senator, and why? Written for the SS minibang.
Relationships: Aino Minako/Kunzite, Hino Rei/Jadeite, Kino Makoto/Nephrite, Mizuno Ami/Zoisite
Comments: 98
Kudos: 45
Collections: Senshi & Shitennou Mini Bang 2020





	1. Prologue: The Root of All Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you to my fantastic beta: Satine86, and my talented artistic collaborators: Elianthos and MessySketchPad. This was written for this year's senshi/shitennou minibang, theme: Red. Senshi/shitennou AU police procedural/urban fantasy/bromance type mish-mash. Warnings for: Innuendo, profanity, possibly mentions of drug use, crime, violence and sexual activity, but nothing super explicit. 
> 
> Finally, a HUGE thank you to our dedicated, hardworking and talented mod team for making this event possible year after year. Even in 2020, aka the flaming dumpster fire that won't ever end.

The bullpen is harsh with fluorescent lighting and redolent with the scents of slightly burnt coffee and sodium-laden snack foods at all hours of the day and night, with phones ringing off and on 24/7, but even as such, Detective Jake Langdon can tell, just by the subtle changes in the muffled sounds of traffic outside and the overflowing state of a nearby wastebasket, that it’s well past the time of the evening commute. The night shift janitor strolls past with a bright yellow bucket of spray bottles and cleaning supplies, and Jake gives the elderly man a nod in greeting, rolling his shoulders to loosen up the tension before heading towards the direction of his desk. He sighs, but is not completely surprised, to see that it had been commandeered in his absence. A slim, deceptively languid blond in an elegantly cut suit is seated at the chair, Ferragamo wingtips perched impertinently on a manila folder containing a case file for a gang hit. Jake glares for a good two minutes at the shiny black shoes before they hit the floor, though the interloper spins in the chair as though he’s having the time of his life before vacating it.

“Zephar, we’ve talked about this. You can’t just hang out at my desk and put your dirty shoes on my paperwork.”

“My shoes are pristine, thank you very much, and indeed, why wouldn’t they be? They have never seen subway dirt or grubby streets and have thus far been babied and pampered like a beautifully Botoxed trophy wife. And I wouldn’t have been hanging out by your desk had you not been in there forever. Ten hours, my lad. You could’ve watched a whole Lord Of The Rings marathon in that time complete with potty and snack breaks.”

“Interrogations don’t take fifteen minutes. What do you think this is, Law and Order SVU? This isn’t the perp’s first time inside, so he knows the score and kept giving me the run-around. It took awhile to get the story out of him.”

“Well, pooh-pooh. I am STARVING, and there is nothing here to be had but what looks like some very old and cold McDonald’s and a box of doughnut holes hard enough to crack a plate glass window. You should’ve just broken his kneecaps. Then your interrogation would’ve ended in about forty-five minutes. You humans get awfully chatty when the kneecaps are out of commission, either due to the pain, or due to all those lovely drugs they give you for the pain. Then you would’ve been done for the day, and he would’ve been put away all the same.”

“NO, Zephar, we can’t just go around breaking people’s kneecaps!” Jake rubs his thumb and forefinger over his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. “Even perps have rights.”

“He deserved it for what he did to that lady, but fine, be an utterly boring sod of a good citizen if you must. Now let’s talk food. Pizza or Thai? I’m thinking Thai. I could go for a good red curry. Oh, hey! How about we invite that delicious little pastry at the coroner’s office along with us? She makes even bloody scrubs look erotic. I think it’s a capital idea!”

“NO, stop trying to hit on the new coroner! I’m sure Dr. Millbrook would take exception to being called a pastry, by the way. Can you please just stop with the…”

“Why would she? Pastries are exquisite luscious works of meticulous culinary art! It’s about damn time they put someone who isn’t grizzled and cantankerous in there! The old coroner looked about as lively as his stiffs. And I have immense respect for your Dr. Millbrook.” The devilish green eyes glint on a face of not-quite-worldly, wickedly androgynous beauty. “She looks like she could use some good quality rest and relaxation. And what would be better than a nice spicy curry followed by a long, luxurious threesome to start off one’s weekend? I’m not selfish, I’d totally share with the both of you-- my curry AND my co--”

“DON’T finish that sentence! GOD! I should’ve let Wilson burn you to ash when I had the chance. If I buy your damned curry, will you shut up with these irritating remarks about threesomes and kneecaps and other crap that I will absolutely not be party to? Okay, thanks.” Clamping a hand around a linen-clad bicep, Jake frog-marches Zephar out of the bullpen, then the precinct. “Maybe you should get a job. Bartending. Door-dashing. Copy-editing. Telemarketing. Something other than hanging around my damn desk when you’re bored.”

“I had a fantastic plan for a blog that would have been highly entertaining and extremely lucrative, but you shut me down. And besides,” Zephar flicks imaginary lint off the sleeve of a suit jacket which likely last graced a Milan runway, “I don’t need the money. It is, after all, the root of all evil. And that is sort of my turf, my bread and butter so to speak, wouldn’t you say?”

“You had an idea for a lurid sex blog specializing in BDSM orgies! I’m not about to have to put on a hazmat suit and take out a black-light just to enter my own damn apartment!”

The two make an odd pair as they walk down the block-- Jake, all broad shoulders and watchful blue eyes in his plain dark trench coat and slacks, moving in efficient, purposeful strides. Zephar The Lustful, the 16th Spirit Duke of the Infernal Regions of Hell, leaves no footprints in the melting slush on the sidewalk as he saunters, catlike, down the street at Jake’s side, and despite the early March chill and the thinness of his designer suit jacket, shows no signs of being cold in the slightest. His tawny hair shines like antique gold under the glow of the street lights, and in the plate glass windows of the shops they pass, his emerald eyes reflect red Hellfire. They’d met a good six years ago when Jake was still a beat cop, and to this day, Jake has no idea why an actual demon-- albeit a somewhat-reformed one who’d not consumed any human flesh or souls in the last three centuries-- had chosen him of all people as a friend. A decidedly non-spirit guide, of a fashion. Zephar, who’d somehow left or escaped Hell through mysterious means an unknown number of years ago, owns the building that Jake lives in, and certainly makes for an interesting roommate for a Homicide detective. They’d had to lay down the ground rules extremely early on, but for an infernal creature, Zephar had been reasonably circumspect. It had taken Jake flushing a sizable cocaine stash down the toilet just the one time before the demon had realized that his human companion was not about to put up with too many of his excesses, but Zephar had taken the lesson in reasonably good humour outside of a small tantrum which had charred the kitchen backsplash.

They arrive at the nearby hole-in-the-wall Thai place and snag a table near the back, where a handwritten sign on the wall reads “NO REFUND FOR TOO SPICY!” in bright red marker. A server brings them glasses of water, and takes their orders-- a medium chicken pad thai for Jake and an extra-hot red curry for Zephar, along with an order of chicken satay and two bowls of Tom Kha. “And my friend and I will be splitting a mango pudding for dessert later!” Zephar proclaims, giving the waitress a saucy wink.

“You’re acting like you haven’t eaten for days,” Jake grumbles. “And I don’t want your mango pudding.”

“Well. I would have shared it with the Hot Coroner Lady, but you banned me from inviting her. You are a hater, do you know that? Maybe I should find you a woman. All this tension and grumpiness from lack of satisfying sexual relations will shorten your lifespan and cause premature male-pattern baldness. And besides, if you’re getting your wick licked, you’d be less concerned about what I may or may not intend to do with the aforementioned Hot Coroner Lady.”

“ _Will you stop calling her that?!_ ”

“All right, as you wish. And for the record, my intentions with the Pulchritudinous Female Pathologist are despicably honourable, really. I desire to better my acquaintance with her and see what makes her tick, much as I did with you when we first met. The fact that I would also like to bang her like a drum set at a rock concert is just an extra bonus.”

“She is a nice lady, a colleague and a professional, and doesn’t deserve to be objectified by the likes of you.”

“Oh, stop being such a wet blanket, lad! There’s that unfortunate sexual deprivation speaking again. I’d ensure that she’d have a marvelous time, and you know it. It would be educational, even for a doctor! She’d be discovering muscles and nerve endings she never even knew she had, I promise you, no matter what she might have read off of Gray’s Anatomy.”

The arrival of their food spares Jake the necessity of replying, and despite Zephar’s mostly-intentional-but-mostly-harmless needling, his stomach, which had subsisted all day on a pair of protein bars and a bag of trail mix, all but weeps in gratitude. A part of him is aware that the demon had, in fact, made a point to drag him out of work and into the restaurant to ensure that his weak mortal body would receive its daily allotment of sustenance and nutrition, rather like a cat might present its owner with a dead rat in their bed. Zephar keeps up a steady stream of perhaps-not-completely-appropriate conversation as he plows through his own food, ruminating on his interest in the pretty and intelligent Dr. Millbrook and offering Jake his choice of an apparent legion of willing and available acquaintances of both genders who could be easily procured for the purposes of no-strings-attached one, two or five-night stands.

“For the six millionth time, I’m not about to engage in salacious and ill-advised sexual acts with anyone out of your little black book, nor am I about to let off steam by participating in dangerous and illegal antics resulting in traumatic bodily harm and extensive property damage, Zephar, because those things are all ethically and morally wrong, not to mention extremely detrimental to my choice of lifestyle and profession, and…” Jake breaks off as his cell phone rings, and the number listed on the caller ID has him pausing. “Hold that thought. Langdon.”

“Ah, bless this city, every last grimy square inch. Crime never sleeps, does it?” Zephar all but purrs across the table as Langdon gets the particulars of the latest homicide-- details which have him straightening up, eyes going flat and grim. “Oh, must be a doozy. And here I thought we were doomed to a boring night in since you were being such a Princess Prissy Pants about the Hot Coroner Lady.” Though Jake had offered to pay earlier, the demon flags down the waitress, and with a flourish, pulls a crisp hundred-dollar bill seemingly out of thin air. “Keep the change, sweetheart. Now, who died? I just got the most delightful tingle down my spine, so I know they deserved it and are headed straight to Home Sweet Home, but obviously you’ll be having a different take on it.”

“It’s bad.” Jake is dimly aware that his troublesome demonic sidekick, as is often the case, paid for their food without a word while he was on the phone with Dispatch. Hopefully, a hundred-odd meals of pizza and Thai wouldn’t come at the cost of his soul someday, but at the moment, he had more pressing things to worry about. “The victim is none other than Senator Trevor Huntington, who was just found lying in a pool of blood in his own bedroom. It was called in by his estranged daughter, Raeanne, who’d all but disowned him around two years ago. The press is about to have a fucking field day with this, and that’s even if she didn’t off him, herself.”

“Ahh. Better and better! I adore a good vicious murderess, if she is one. Just warms the cockles of one’s heart like a cup of hot cocoa, extra marshmallows and brimstone.”


	2. No Rest For The Wicked

Senator Trevor Huntington lived in an opulent penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows with incredible views of the city, but the police had the whole area cordoned off a block in each direction, and traffic was at a dead standstill. “You. Stay put and don’t do anything evil.” Jake admonishes the demon in the passenger seat of the unmarked car as he pulls it into the closest convenient parking spot. Zephar simply gives him a dismissive little wave and pulls out a ludicrously bedazzled iPhone which should’ve looked ridiculous in the hands of anyone who wasn’t a fourteen-year-old girl, and yet suited him perfectly, red rhinestones and all. He’s well into a game of online poker-- quite possibly swindling someone or another out of their life savings-- by the time Jake locks the car doors. 

He shows his badge to the uniform stationed at the building’s doors, and makes his way up to the fiftieth floor. The penthouse is already criss-crossed with yellow crime scene tape and the forensics team is setting up, but the wrongness of the scene hits him right off the bat. Dispatch had stated that the politician had been stabbed to death-- a particularly gruesome, personal sort of killing certainly-- but not a single thing in that luxuriously-appointed residence was out of place. There’s a Ming vase-- pale blue and creamy white porcelain thin as parchment paper-- still resting undisturbed on its rosewood stand on an end table. The senator’s wallet and the keys to his Mercedes are found, untouched, on his desk amidst a tidy stack of papers. The place is neat as a pin and furnished with pricey electronics and antiques, but then again, on this side of town, it could afford to be. Violent and property crime alike were almost unheard of in this neighbourhood. 

Jake walks into the master bedroom, and even there, though the dead man lies in a grisly pool of blood in his bed, the scene is far too pristine. There is a pair of blood-spattered platinum cufflinks neatly placed on the nightstand, right next to a cell phone that is turned on and almost fully charged. The senator had taken off his shoes and jacket, but lay in the bed otherwise fully dressed, eyes closed, no expression of terror or fury or pain on his face. The sheets weren’t even wrinkled, nor any pillows landed on the floor. It almost looked staged, except for the fact that it would’ve been almost impossible to move an already-dead and bleeding man into that spot in the fiftieth floor of a busy building without disturbing the surrounding areas and attracting all types of attention. The uniformed first responder moseys up to Jake, shakes his head.

“We’ve started canvassing, but so far no one’s heard anything, nor did anyone else call in with a disturbance. Not gonna lie, though. Guy kind of has a lot of enemies.”

“Yeah.” Rich, privileged and not altogether unobjectionable, Huntington was the type of senator who embodied the worst of dirty politics. Younger and more progressive candidates had pointed out his open distaste for the underprivileged, women and minorities. He’d had a history of voting at the whims of whichever wealthy business lobbyist bankrolled his expenses. Death threats and vitriol over his policy-making and some of his more inflammatory statements were undoubtedly an almost-everyday occurrence. “The daughter called it in? I recall they don’t get along.”

“She was a social worker downtown, and from all accounts, a tough gal despite the privileged upbringing, handling cases in the projects. He shut down the funding for the program that she’d been leading-- re-allocated the money towards a tax cut for the wealthy. Told her she didn’t need that job anyway considering the size of her inheritance. Raeanne Huntington, aged twenty-nine. Has loads of money to her name, but has not publically appeared with her father or spoken of him in the last two years. I don’t know what she’d be doing here if she’d had nothing to do with Daddy Dearest in so long. Weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Very weird. Where is she?”

The uniform leads Jake to one of the four other bedrooms in the suite, similarly richly furnished and eerily undisturbed. There, sitting bolt-upright on a white velvet easy-chair, is a stunning young woman in a red silk cocktail dress, raven hair spilling like glossy ink over her slim shoulders. She looks up when Jake enters, violet eyes grim but dry on a face which could have graced a magazine cover, but doesn’t move to stand or say anything.

“Ms. Huntington,” Jake holds out a hand. “I’m Detective Jake Langdon from Homicide. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She doesn’t shake his hand, but shrugs one elegant shoulder gloomily. “It was bound to happen, unfortunately. He certainly doesn’t lack for enemies.”

A rather strange sentiment-- certainly off-putting and unexpected out of a daughter who’d just found her father violently murdered. Raeanne Huntington doesn’t seem pleased, but neither does she seem surprised, nor very particularly saddened. “Could you walk me through your day, and how you came to find him this way?”

“Well. I work for the city. Back in the day, I was the assistant director for the Phoenix Initiative-- you know, the non-profit program for underprivileged young people from troubled homes to get their GEDs and get on-the-job training, college preparation and the like. That plug got pulled two years ago, so nowadays I do what I can as the school social worker at Central High. My workday started at half-past six in the morning, ended at half-past four, and then I took the subway home. I got there around six, and got changed to go to a networking dinner at the Millennium hotel. Arrived there around seven.”

“Ah.” The Millennium hotel, a luxury accommodation and conference venue, is but three blocks from this penthouse-- easy walking distance. “And why did you leave there and come here?”

“I gave a speech-- a damn good one-- and managed to finagle some contributions for the school. You’re a cop of this city-- you know the condition of the building, the graduation rate.” Raeanne’s full lips curve in a sneering grimace. “Maybe call it my masochistic side, but after those sponsors loosened their purse-strings, I called my father to gloat. He wasn’t going to be able to pull the plug this time. And he hung up on me.” Her hands are slim but strong, the nails painted a blood-red to match her dress. Jake can’t see any visible bloodstains on them, but fingers are the easiest things to wash clean. “My father is morally reprehensible and disgustingly self-entitled most of the time. But he doesn’t just hang up on phone calls like a child throwing a tantrum. I called back, intending to give him a piece of my mind, but he didn’t answer. So when I left the dinner an hour ago, I headed here. I have a key, even though I don’t ever truly use it. I got here about an hour ago, buzzed his door. No answer. So I came up, and that’s what I found.”

That wasn’t exactly incriminating, but it didn’t look too good, either. Jake doesn’t spot any physical evidence suggesting that the beautiful, surly woman could have stabbed her father to death herself-- there is not so much as a speck of blood on her, anywhere-- but there’s certainly no love lost between the two. And if Raeanne still held any bitterness over her father pulling the plug on her old job, certainly a viable motive. And just based on the quality of her jewelry and the expensive designer dress, certainly had the funds-- unlucrative current profession or not-- to hire a hitman to take care of the details. Perhaps there were matters of inheritance to consider, as well. “Could others verify what time you left work, and also what time you arrived and left the Millennium Hotel?”

“Sure, if necessary.” Her slim brows lower fiercely over eyes that glitter like dark amethysts. “I didn’t kill my father, Detective. I can’t say that he was a great father, or even a good man, but I wouldn’t have stabbed him to death in his own bed. Anyway, he had more than his share of enemies. Certainly in the last five years he’s ruined more lives, and in worse ways, than mine.”

“I guess I’ll be kept pretty busy for the foreseeable future, then.” Jake tries for a reassuring smile, but she doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. “I’ll have to ask, of course, that you stay in town and stay available. I’m sure I’ll have more questions at some point, Ms. Huntington.”

“Where would I go, and why?” She gives him one withering stare. “I have my work. And I’m not stupid. Running will really make it seem like I did it. I already have to fight tooth and nail for funding, Detective-- any bad publicity of that sort would destroy it.”

“Fair enough. Who else would have access to his home, though? Any servants, or associates, or…?”

“There’s the cleaning lady-- Phoebe Damiani, who comes three times a week. I doubt she did it, though. Phoebe is pushing sixty, and about the size of a bird. And he paid her well enough, even if he’s the sort to snap his fingers at the help. And Kade Sherwood.” Her head jerks up as soon as that name leaves her lips. “You should probably look into Kade Sherwood. You know who he is, of course.”

“Yes.” Sherwood was another politician-- a protege of the old senator who’d only recently struck out on his own. He’d been Huntington’s right-hand man as recently as a year ago. It had certainly made some waves in the news when Sherwood had, instead of fervently supporting his boss as usual, proclaimed at a press conference that he would be launching his own campaign the next election, citing that the state would need a younger, more dynamic lawmaker who could keep up with the times. Huntington’s Twitter response to that had been nothing short of vitriolic.

“Kade was angling for a reconciliation, perhaps an endorsement from my father. I don’t get into all that because there’s not a single scruple to be found between the two of them. But ultimately, neither would give a damn about screwing the other over.” She raises her chin and stands, her knuckles white, her slim shoulders quivering with tension. “I already passed along my number and address to the officer, and I assume you’ll want me to come down to the station in the morning to give an official statement. It will have to be after ten-- I have an appointment with a fourteen-year-old freshman girl who’s a month away from giving birth and is maybe finally ready to tell me who did it to her.”

“Your father was murdered, Ms. Huntington.”

“And he’s not going to come back to life if I cancel my appointment, Detective. I’ll be at the station at ten. Do you need anything else at the moment?”

“Forensics will probably want to test your clothing,” Jake says apologetically, clearing his throat when she raises a haughty eyebrow. “They can provide you with a sweatshirt and pants to change into. I’m sorry, it’s protocol.”

“No need for a sweatshirt and pants. If it’s all the same with you, I’ll get a change of clothing out of here, seeing as to how this was my old room.” She waits for him to nod, then makes a beeline for the walk-in closet, pulling out a slinky little number in black velvet on a padded hanger. She aims a long look at Jake over her shoulder, quirking an eyebrow and gesturing the top of the zipper at her nape. “Do you mind awfully?”

Jake had dealt with his share of femme fatales in his time on the force, and had never considered himself the type to be taken in by a pretty face. Perhaps it was the indolent, almost-dismissive tone of her voice, the utter lack of coquetry in her expression, that had him pausing more than any breathy giggles or batted eyelashes might have. “I suppose. The techs have my fingerprints on file, so there’s no real harm in it.” He affects a tone as cool and bored as hers, and grasps the tab of the zipper, gives it a tug. The scarlet fabric splits in two to reveal smooth, pale skin, the warmth of it like a teasing whisper against his fingertips. “I’ll turn around so you can change.”

He does so, facing the plate glass window which, like in the rest of the penthouse, is floor-to-ceiling tempered one-way glass. It turns out to be a mistake, however, because a rustle of red silk later, and he can see every damn thing reflected in the glass as the dress crumples to the floor in a crimson puddle and she shakes back that mane of jet-black hair away from perfect, creamy breasts before stepping away on long legs flawless as Greek columns. He resists the urge to clear his suddenly-too-dry throat, and stares at the toes of his shoes instead. They’re getting badly scuffed with the salt-saturated, wet sidewalks. A few long, agonizing moments later, her voice sounds behind him, cool and collected as before. “I’m about as decent as I’ll ever be, I suppose. You can turn back around, Detective.”

She’s bending over, skirts sliding dangerously up on those endless legs as she picks up the discarded red dress off the floor, as he turns around, and Jake takes a deep breath, counts to three. “You can just hand that off to any of the forensics guys. They’ll tag and bag it. Unfortunately, you’ll likely not be getting that back, but you can feel free to submit a receipt to the police department for reimbursement.”

“And hassle you hard-working boys in blue by miring you in bureaucratic red tape?” Raeanne Huntington’s lips curve in a sardonic smirk. “It was a present a few years back from my father, anyway. I’ll just write it off as a total loss, like everything else that he touched. See you tomorrow, Detective.”

She strides out of the room without a backward glance. Roughly half an hour later, Jake has also wrapped up at the crime scene for the night, and makes his way back down to where he’d parked. Not completely to his surprise, Zephar had left the car and was leaning against the Coroner’s van in an attitude of languid pleasure. Dr. Amelia Millbrook, petite and tidily pretty as a patch of blue spring violets, is supervising as her team loads the black body bag into the van, her slim hands still encased in teal nitrile gloves. “I’ll be performing the autopsy first thing,” she greets Jake with a wan smile. “It’s about to be a long night.”

“Oooh, if only it were the other variety of long night, love,” Zephar’s voice is low and sultry. “I admire your dedication, though. It’s so very seductive, you just don’t even know.”

Amelia looks as though she doesn’t quite know how to interpret that, but Zephar’s tone is unmistakable, and a faint flush creeps up her smooth cheeks. “I daresay there’s nothing very seductive about cutting up a homicide victim and inspecting his wounds and organs to try to figure out what brought about his untimely demise, Mr. Smith.”

“Nonsense, a beautiful woman who knows her way around a sharp blade? Oooo la la and be still, my heart.” Zephar gives a delicate but luxuriant little shudder as though someone was drawing the soft, tickly end of an ostrich feather slowly over all of his nerve endings. “You plan on doing him right away then, dove? Can I help? Can I watch?”

“That sounds so wrong and icky and you know it,” Jake grumbles, none-too-gently pushing Zephar away from the van. “I’m sorry about Mr… Smith. He’s been staying up too late. It’s way past his bedtime and he’s taken to delusional rambling.” He supposed that it made sense for the demon to introduce himself using a less ostentatious moniker than Zephar The Lustful, 16th Spirit Duke of the Infernal Regions, but “Mr. Smith” was just laughable. 

“I have, alas. There’s no rest for the wicked, as they say, and that is the honest and unvarnished truth.” The demon blithely ignores Jake’s glares and vigorous head shaking and smiles in a way calculated to charm and persuade. “Whatever can I do to make your night less exhausting and more enjoyable, Dr. Darling? A sandwich? One of those fancy Starbucks coffees with everything but the kitchen sink dumped in on top of a great quantity of whipped cream? Perhaps just a great quantity of whipped cream, applied and consumed strategically? Hmm? Just say the word, and I will make all of your darkest and most lurid dreams come true.”

“I… that’s nice of you to offer, but nothing is necessary. I’m used to it, but thank you.”

“Used to the long nights, or the dark and lurid dreams? Oh, don’t tell me. There’s no wrong answer, of course. Though the best answer would be Option C, All Of The Above.”

“Zephar, we need to let Dr. Millbrook get back to her work. This isn’t the social hour.”

“Oh, let the good Dr. Darling have her fun. You can ask her. I have been the epitome of a perfect gentleman.” Zephar winks at the Coroner, and blows her a lavish kiss. “All work and no play makes Jake a very dull and grumpy boy. Rather like one of those drooly, whiney two-year-olds in need of a spanking and a nap who start rolling about on the floor of the frozen aisle at the grocery store. If it’s merely a spanking and a nap that you need, Jakey-pooh, just say the word, and I’ll get you together in very short order.”

“I’ll drop off the autopsy report and tox screen to you as soon as I can, Detective.” Dr. Millbrook closes the back doors of the Coroner’s van and makes her way towards the driver’s side. “Try to have a good night. It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Smith.”

“Oh, let me assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine, Dr. Darling. Don’t work too hard-- at least not over someone too dead to enjoy it. And do let me know if you’d like to take me up on the sandwich. Or the coffee. Or the whipped cream.”

The last glimpse they have of her before the van’s doors close behind her is complete deer-in-headlights, crimson-cheeked embarrassment. Jake scowls and shakes his head at Zephar. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“Alas. I got bored after winning four games of Texas Hold ‘Em. And she was right there, looking all adorable and competent. If you’re asking me to resist temptation, that is against everything I have ever known and learned in the last thousand years. And I don’t understand why you’re so cantankerous. It’s not as though you have any carnal interest in the delightful Dr. Darling yourself. Do you see what a lovely, slender neck she has? That very practical haircut of hers shows it off to perfection. I just want to nibble and lick the whole length of it, slowly. While shagging her brains out. But before you get your knickers in a twist, no, I didn’t tell her that to her face. What’s the verdict on the potential murderess?”

“The verdict on the murder is something to be decided by a courtroom jury, and only after someone has been charged with the crime. But if you’re referring to Ms. Huntington, I don’t know yet. She’s a complicated woman, to say the least.” 

“I caught a glimpse of her as the grunt escorted her out-- if by ‘complicated’ you mean sexy, I’d be inclined to agree. I have a weakness for aloof sensible brunettes who know better than to dally with the likes of me. It can’t be helped. She doesn’t seem to be a particularly happy, well-fulfilled woman. I’m sure you can get to the bottom of what makes her tick, and change that all around.”

“Can you stop calling the uniformed officers ‘grunts’!? And if you’re implying that I should engage in social relations with a witness who may possibly be a suspect, the list of moral and ethical problems with that idea is as long as my leg, and I do not have the time to go over that tonight with your reprehensible ass. I would like to get at least a few hours of sleep before this shit hits the news.”

“So uptight. Sleep is supremely overrated, but as you will. Can I drive? We’ll get your crabby toddler self in for his spanking and nap so much quicker.”

“NO.”

“Why not? You could put the siren and the light on it. We’d be home in three minutes. I didn’t molest your Hot Coroner Lady and I’ve been so disgustingly _good_ lately, it’s high time for me to have some fun!”

“I will handcuff you and throw you in the back like a perp, Zephar.”

“Promises, promises.”

Jake rubs his temples with one hand as he unlocks the car with the other, and turns up the police radio to block out the rest of the demon’s nonsensical chatter. But for all that, Zephar leaves him mercifully to his own devices once they get home, and even puts away the leftover Thai food in separate, labeled containers in the refrigerator before giving Jake a helpful shove towards the direction of the bathroom. Within the hour, he’s facedown in the bed, deep in the sleep of exhaustion and dreaming of blood red silk and sardonic violet eyes.


	3. High Stakes

Raeanne Huntington arrives at the precinct at ten o’clock sharp the next morning, and is led with very little ceremony to the Homicide division by a young cadet who looks more than a little awed by her personage. She’s dressed for work and not leisure this morning, in a sleek, form-fitting skirt suit the colour of ripe pomegranates, a frill of snowy white lace visible at her throat. She sinks into the uncomfortable industrial-issue chair across from Jake’s desk as though it were a throne, elegant and regal in her stiletto heels and ruby earrings. “I don’t need coffee, or water, or anything else, Detective, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Ask away.”

“Did you kill your father?” 

If she’s shocked that he would take her at her word and ask the most important question thus bluntly and without preamble, she doesn’t show it. “No, I did not. I’m not going to lie and say that I’m devastated by his untimely end, because… in a way, just from how he’d lived his life for the last several years, it wouldn’t have surprised me. He’d made more than his share of enemies over some of his actions and their consequences, let alone some of the things that he’d said. Not a day went by that someone online didn’t threaten to kill him, or some disgruntled constituent would call his office to rant and rave about how he was a lowlife lying politician who didn’t care about how many people he’d screwed on his way to the top. I distanced myself far, far away as soon as I graduated, because I wanted no part of it. We’d never been particularly close, not since my mother died and he’d really just thrown himself wholeheartedly into work. I was probably about nine years old.”

“That’s rough. Was your father all right with the fraught state of your relationship, do you know? Did the fact that you weren’t too close, by your own admission, bother him?”

“No, not really. He was a set of rigid house rules and the source of the astronomical expense account in care of my grandfather and the household staff to raise me, a few annual formal dinners on my birthdays, Thanksgivings, and Christmases. I’d always get a white dress and a string of pearls, like a debutante.” She gives an ironic smile. “I made regular donations to Goodwill, shall we say.”

“And then there was the situation with the program he defunded.”

“Yes.” Raeanne doesn’t look away, or mince words. “The initiative was designed to use tax dollars towards helping underprivileged kids in the poorest neighbourhoods in the state to get ahead in life. Education, food, shelter, counseling and after school care and programs. Daddy dearest at the time was getting a bit of money from certain high-profile corporations including a certain big-box brand which would definitely not benefit from non-profit programs passing out mass quantities of the sort of product that they sell free of cost to the people who need them. He made a bunch of speeches and riled up a bunch of his minions in the senate and the money went elsewhere. I was given my walking papers, and he had the nerve to tell me all for the better-- that I didn’t really have to work, considering the size of my inheritance. Or if that didn’t satisfy me, I could always just do the appropriate thing-- in his mind, anyway-- and marry well. He met me for dinner at a restaurant downtown, and wrote me a check for a thousand dollars to ‘give to your little slum kids’-- what is a thousand dollars when you slashed funding in the millions? I ripped it up in his face and walked out, and I suppose the media had a field day with that.”

“You still seem angry over it, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Raeanne quirks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. “Am I wrong to be angry, Detective? My father had done a lot of despicable things in his time. That was the main one which directly affected me, but let me reassure you that there are plenty of people out there who’d been screwed over by his actions and beliefs.”

“Perhaps, but not everyone would have been able to get up to that penthouse, Ms. Huntington.”

“And I suppose you have nothing but my word, at the moment, to say that I didn’t do it, Detective. At least until the reports start coming in. Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“You can if you’d like, but if you’re innocent, as you proclaim, why bother?”

“I hope you don’t think I’m that easily taken in by that line, Detective. But as you say. I have nothing to hide.” She leans back in the chair and uncrosses those long, long legs. “I’m sure you’ll find out, since you’re looking, that my life’s rather an open book.”

“I guess I’ll find out, one way or another. You also mentioned Kade Sherwood. Why do you think I should be looking at him?”

“I would have thought that’s obvious. He’d been a flunkie of my father’s for as long as I can remember, but as of late, seems like he’s trying to break out of the fold. He’d asked for an endorsement, as I understand it. My father, needless to say, sees it as nothing short of a betrayal, and will have none of it. And as objectionable as my father might be to some, there’s very little chance of Kade winning without either my father’s blessing, or if my father is out of the picture, entirely.”

“And you think that’s enough motive to kill him?”

Raeanne spares him a single pitying glance. “Politics doesn’t pay as well as you think if you’re not in a prime position. And Kade, like all the rest of the people in this crowd, has a certain lifestyle that he’s accustomed to. His wife was a few years ahead of me in the same prep school. Kade bought Ashley a six-carat diamond for her engagement ring. Her selection. She likes her glitters. Their children go to a private school and they keep a housekeeper, a nanny, a chauffeur and a personal chef. Last winter, he took the family out on holiday to Bali. I think, at this juncture, if Kade doesn’t successfully strike out on his own, he’s going to go bankrupt sooner or later.”

“From the looks of it, your father was stabbed, though. That’s a rather personal way to kill someone just for financial gain. A gun’s much cleaner and quicker.”

“Well, now. I’m sure we both know that if Kade Sherwood was indeed behind this killing, he wouldn’t have done it himself. But a small expense such as some pittance doled out to a lowlife thug would pay him off very handsomely in the long run.”

“The same could be said for you, couldn’t it? Do you benefit from the senator’s death, Ms. Huntington?”

“Oh, you must not follow the tabloids much, Detective.” A wry chuckle escapes between her full lips. “My father cut me out of his will four years ago when I voted for the opposing candidate in the last election. I don’t know what happens to his money and worldly goods now, but I won’t see most of it. But my mother was Ruth Warrington, as in Warrington Communications. My inheritance through her side of the family is more money than I can spend in one lifetime. Sad as it sounds, neither of us have had any use for each other in the last few years.”

“I’m sorry.” Jake isn’t quite sure why he says those two words, but there’s something about her, beautiful and compelling and brittle under the diamond-hard polish. A woman who works for peanuts out in the projects, who tells a homicide detective in complete brutal honesty that she didn’t kill her father, but didn’t have much use for him, either. It’s ballsy, certainly. And perhaps ill-advised, but compellingly truthful. And for that alone, he’s inclined not to think of her as a killer. He’d seen her smile-- grim and mocking, more of a smirk, really-- and wouldn’t that face, already striking even in that cynicism, be utterly breathtaking in genuine happiness? Not that that has to do with anything, he reminds himself, cutting off that train of thought with a click. 

“You know, I actually think you mean that.” Raeanne says, almost as though speaking to herself, a wondering expression taking over her face for a moment. “Thank you, I suppose. I don’t quite know what to say.”

He was right-- she’s endlessly beautiful when her face isn’t twisted in an expression of bitterness, but Jake clears his throat, turns back to the matter at hand. “You’re welcome. I will be looking into Sherwood, as well as any other possible avenues. The Coroner’s report should be here sometime in the near future. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure. Am I free to go for now?”

“Yes. I’ll walk you out.” He might as well hit the road himself, start canvassing the neighbours, revisit the crime scene now during the daylight hours. Jake walks with Raeanne Huntington through the precinct and out to the visitors’ parking lot, where she unlocks a fairly new and well-kept but basically non-descript black domestic sedan with her key fob. Nothing about the car looks as though it could have been involved in a violent crime-- it is neither dirty, nor too recently cleaned-- he sees a travel cup of coffee in the drink holder with a flutter of red lipstick on the rim, a charging cord for a cell phone plugged into the console, a pair of oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses left on the dashboard. Still, he mentally notes down the make and model and plate number even as he opens the door for her, watches her slide in. The car drives off sedately and in the direction of Central High School-- she’s headed back to work-- and Jake sighs as he makes his way towards the other parking lot. The dead senator’s penthouse is on the fiftieth floor of a building full of people, but no one had called the police that night to report any type of suspicious activity or disturbance. Canvassing was bound to be a nightmare, but it had to be done. 

He’s only slightly surprised to see a familiar slim figure lounging against the side of the unmarked police car, indolently smoking a cigarette. “That’s a disgusting, not to mention, expensive habit which will kill you.”

“I do so enjoy all manner of disgusting and expensive habits which, sadly for you, will not kill me in the least. Did you have a nice chit-chat with the lady, then? My, but she looks scrumptious in those thin little stiletto heels, doesn’t she?” Zephar puts out the cigarette, then opens the passenger side door of the car without so much as a by-your-leave. “And now you’re off to ask a lot of boring questions to a lot of busy people.”

“And you’re not invited, so I don’t know why you’re here.”

“Why, so you can give me a ride uptown, of course! There’s a high-stakes Poker tournament that you are, of course, supposed to know nothing about. I got invited last night after I won a quarter of a million dollars online, you see. Before Dr. Darling arrived and I bowed out. But not to fret! No widows and orphans are going to be foreclosed on because of my plans, and you’re not Vice Squad, anyway. Besides, who do you think might also have an invite in for this game but a certain Mr. Kade Sherwood? The man’s got a bit of a gambling problem, come to find out. Has to find ways to finance his wife’s magpie predilection for shiny things and keep his mistress-- _oh, I mean secretary-_ \- on the hush-hush. And no, don’t try to show off that badge of yours and force your way in. A scalpel can be a much more useful tool than a sledgehammer sometimes. Just ask Dr. Darling.”

Jake grits his teeth and puts the key in ignition. “Fine. Whereabouts uptown?”

Zephar blithely rattles off an address-- an upscale boutique hotel and convention center, coincidentally on the same block as the Millennium, where Raeanne had supposedly been the night of her father’s murder. “Be nice and avoid the potholes, Jakey, and I’ll leave you a five-star review on the Uber website.”

Jake’s terse response on what the demon could do with his five star review, the potholes and the Uber website had Zephar roaring with laughter.


	4. Questions With No Answers

The preliminary neighbourhood canvass turns up nothing useful, and Jake is weary and hungry and out-of-sorts by the time he makes his way back to his desk at the precinct. All that had turned up was a list of the people who’d have access to the penthouse, which matched what he’d already been told by Raeanne. The death of the senator had hit the news, and there’d be a press conference in the morning that he truly wanted no part of. There was already a shitstorm brewing on social media platforms speculating who, of the senator’s numerous detractors, might’ve been behind his untimely demise.

Zephar had been summarily dropped off at his illicit Poker game some hours back, without any clear directions. Jake had dealt with enough Vice in his days as a beat cop that he knew it could be hours, or days, before a tournament of that nature might run its course. He had bigger problems to worry about at the moment than whether the demon would swindle some high-rolling rich boys into losing the shirts off their backs. He himself would not be in front of a bunch of microphones bright-ass early in the morning-- that particular honour fell to his commanding officer, Lieutenant Darien Shields, but he’d taken point on enough cases in his time to know that if he had nothing to show by 0800 tomorrow, there’d be Hell to pay. 

“And don’t you just look like the child who’d just been told that Santa Claus isn’t coming this year because the elves went on strike for better pay and health benefits! But never fear, Zephar is here!” A foil-wrapped pita sandwich of some sort, overflowing with savoury meat and colourful pickled vegetables, is shoved in front of his face. “You look like you’ve had a long and boring day. Should we go for a night out on the town? Drinks and clubbing? Debauchery and Hellraising? Popcorn and a feel-good romantic comedy featuring tasteful nudity?”

“No. None of that. Your game wasn’t all that long.”

“Oh, I could have prolonged it, but it was getting boring. So I let your Mr. Sherwood win ten thousand dollars one round, and now he fancies that we are the best of friends. I am quite sure he would’ve invited me to a round of golf and martinis if I’d let it go on for much longer, but as is, he simply told me all about his woes, his upcoming political aspirations, and how he’d intended to ride the coattails of your dead man’s legacy into a position of security. He was at a political rally the night the old man kicked it, by the way. Plenty of witnesses, including the mayor, and the hardworking camera crews of NBC, CNN and Reuters. So I daresay that eliminates the need to physically test him for the usual pesky bodily fluids and hair particles or whatever it is that the fellows in the funny full-body get-ups do with their tweezers and tape. To keep him in good humour, I also transferred him those funds right off. I suppose little Timmy and Maggie get to keep their ponies and skating lessons for another month.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what account…”

“What do you take me for? UBS, not to be confused with the lads in the brown uniforms delivering your parcels. It’s a venerated Swiss institution, naturally. Very professional, very secretive. Obviously anything you might glean from a glimpse into his information won’t ever be admissible as evidence in a courtroom for you lot, but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be naughty and scare him witless should you be so inclined. Anyway, even without that measly ten thousand, I’ve made about another three hundred thousand, and even had time to stop at the food truck. They weren’t very amused when I told them I’d take my steak sandwich still mooing, but it was very tolerable, nonetheless. And, ah, I am right on time! Dr. Darling, don’t you just look precious today? Would you like a chicken shawarma sandwich? Perhaps a neck massage? Oh, do, do! Don’t be shy!”

“I… I’m just here to talk to Jake about the preliminary findings. I’m not done with everything yet, but this is important enough to share now.” More for lack of anything to do with her hands than probable hunger, Amelia takes the proffered sandwich with a flustered smile. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“Oh, do call me Zephar, you delightful little thing. And since you and Jake are here to discuss business, I suppose I’d better make myself scarce. Ta-ta for now, lovely lady.” He bows with a flourish, then walks away towards the direction of the vending machines. Jake, well aware that the demon is still within supernatural eavesdropping distance but equally well aware that there’s no recourse for it, turns to Amelia expectantly. 

“What is it?”

“Well, here’s the thing. Cause of death is quite obvious-- blood loss through wounds in the neck and chest, including several to major arteries. But with arterial spray, there should’ve been spatter all over the walls, the ceilings. The scene’s almost too clean-- despite the large quantities of blood in the bed-- for that. It’s almost as though something had stopped the flow from spreading.”

“Do you think someone might’ve cleaned up the scene?”

“The timing of it is wrong. They would’ve had to eliminate all traces off the walls and ceilings in a very short block of time-- perhaps two hours at the most-- between the time that he’d answered his cell phone and his body had been discovered. The place would’ve reeked of bleach and solvents. And there’s another thing. The wounds themselves.”

“What about them?”

“I’ve seen some crazy objects get used as murder weapons in my time-- knives, guns, hand tools of all shapes and sizes. But the marks on the body are not consistent with anything I have ever seen. Not a straight blade, not a serrated blade. Not even something like a screwdriver or an awl or a pick. It’s almost like--- like…”

“Like what?”

“Teeth, or claws. But no visible bite marks that resemble anything that I’ve seen in forensic dentistry, either. And no DNA from saliva present. It’s as though a very meticulous predator animal-- a wolf, or a lion, or such-- had managed to make its way into the penthouse and ripped that man’s throat to shreds. And we both know that that would be impossible.”

Jake blinks, and stares at Dr. Millbrook’s pretty, solemn face, which is completely in earnest, sea-blue eyes troubled and forthright behind her wire-framed glasses. “Well, Hell.”

“You summoned?” As though by magic, Zephar pops back up, all smiles, now carrying a can of Mountain Dew in one hand which he also hands to Amelia. “There, there, Dr. Darling. It will be all right, that’s a girl.” Methodically and quite without invitation, he lays his fingertips at the nape of her neck, kneads with dexterous skill. “Relax, love. You’re so tense. Jake’s completely all right if you’re here to be the bearer of bad news. He’s a big boy, he can handle it.”

Amelia freezes a little at the sensation of fingertips at her neck, but then slowly lets out an exhale as her muscles start to relax, though she still has the wherewithal to give Zephar a quizzical look. “You were just holding a soda can. Why aren’t your fingers cold?”

“Ever the scientist, aren’t you, sweetheart? That’s so sexy. I suppose I run hot, being a hellion and all.” Zephar grins, and steps away. “Now go eat something delicious and unhealthy, the both of you, and stop worrying so much! Ding Dong the Rich is dead! He’s quite-- well, I wouldn’t say peaceful-- but at home, now, right where he belongs.”

**

Zephar’s witticisms about scalpels versus sledgehammers aside, Jake doesn’t waste any time on niceties when he arrives at the office of Kade Sherwood, unapologetically flashing his badge and making his way into the back without so much as by-your-leave to the curvaceous redhead manning the front desk, leaving her sputtering in outrage, bosoms heaving beneath a blouse just a shade too tight and low-cut. Zephar’s assessment about Sherwood’s extramarital affairs might well be on-point, Jake reflects as he gives the politician’s door one perfunctory knock before pulling it open. Sherwood whips his head around from where he’s whispering into the phone, and Jake’s immediate impression of the man isn’t promising at all.

He’d seen pictures of the politician online and on television, of course. A slick, good-looking blond, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, all flawlessly pressed suits and perfect teeth and nails. But the Kade Sherwood hunched over his desk looks a good decade older since his last press conference-- dark circles ring his watery-blue eyes, looking especially prominent behind his trendy black-framed glasses. His complexion is ghastly pale behind the sun-lamp tan, and his normally immaculate hair is standing up in tufts, as though he’d been running his hands all through it or perhaps forgot to brush it after a restless night of tossing and turning. 

“Mr. Sherwood. Detective Jake Langdon with Homicide, here to ask you a few questions about your relationship with the late Senator Huntington.”

“I’ve got nothing to say, Officer. I was at a political rally.” It seems that age-old, bone-bred hauteur would come to Sherwood’s rescue after all, and the man straightens, stares down his nose at Jake. “There were thousands of people who could place me there at the time of my colleague’s tragic demise, so I’m afraid you’re wasting your time if you want to pin this on me.”

“And why do you think I’d come here to arrest you, Mr. Sherwood?” Jake knows full well that the politician deliberately forewent his title of Detective to set a tone of arrogant condescension. “Wouldn’t I be here with a gang of uniformed officers and quite a few black-and-whites parked outside if that were the case? I merely need a better understanding of the late senator beyond what’s known to the public and the press, and thought that perhaps you’d be able to help me, considering the long-standing working relationship that you two have had. Certainly, with your position on reducing crime, I’d think you would be only too willing to help.”

“In this line of work, you can’t please everyone, and certainly, there’s always risk. We calculate it into our plans, and decide whether or not it’s worth our time. We’re motivated by a greater good for all-- this country was founded by those brave, intrepid souls willing to stand up to oppression and put their lives on the line to better the lives of their peers. This is perhaps one of the most dangerous professions in the world outside of active combat.” 

“Mm-hmmmm.” Jake draws out the last syllable. “I suppose I will have to try my hardest to relate, Mr. Sherwood. I worked the beat down on the East Side, by D-Point Circle, for four years. My first partner was shot in the line of duty in that first year during a disturbance call on Chaos Crew turf. If you’ll pardon my impertinence, you know nothing about a dangerous profession.”

Sherwood’s concession of the point is a sullen shrug, and he schools his face into a bland expression. “In any case, I can’t say that I know of anyone in particular who’d want Senator Huntington dead. It could be anyone, don’t you think? He was quite prominent in the public eye, and it is an election year.”

“And you’d benefit greatly from not having to face off against a well-established incumbent, wouldn’t you?” Jake drawls. “Huntington might draw the ire of some of the younger and more liberal set, but he’s nothing if not reliable. His base is secure as Fort Knox. That’s quite the uphill battle you’d have if he were still in the running.”

“I don’t like your implications, so I don’t think I will answer any more of your questions without my lawyer present.” Kade Sherwood picks his phone up again, starts to dial, but Jake stands, holds out his hands. 

“No need to call your lawyer, or your broker for that matter. I’m not here to arrest you, Mr. Sherwood, so for tonight at least, you can return home to the arms of your loving family without having to liquidate the assets squirreled away in the UBS account-- last four digits 8265, if I’m not mistaken. I’m sure you are very busy and have a great deal of work to do now that Senator Huntington’s passing has breathed new life into your campaign, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in touch with new information as it comes to light, and I’m sure I’ll see you at the funeral. Have a good afternoon.”

“You--- you…!”

“I’ll see myself out, Mr. Sherwood. Stay in town and available, please.” Jake allows himself a grim smile over his shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions soon."


	5. The Uncertainty Of A Moment

The funeral is a bit of a circus, as is expected. Televised, with a lot of speeches from a lot of politically prominent people. Statements are made by all manner of important government officials, from the President to the Secretary of State to the mayor of their city, pontificating on Huntington’s many years of public service. Less flattering statements are made by the anonymous masses online, quite a few of whom are gleefully happy that a hated politician had met his just desserts under an assassin’s blade. The media has a field day, and perhaps more than a fair share of reporters barrage Kade Sherwood with questions about his feelings over his former mentor’s death and his political aspirations in the face of this unexpected turn of events.

Raeanne Huntington, though she’s mentioned several times by speculative reporters, manages to dodge the scrutiny quite well. She’s given bereavement time from her work, and stays all but out of sight at the funeral, a slim and dark-clad shadow of a woman well concealed in the mass of mourners and onlookers. She makes no statements to the press, no eulogy speech during the services. Kade Sherwood, on the other hand, all but basks in the attention, and Jake has to admit that the man plays it off very well, all apparent sleeplessness aside-- praising his mentor to the skies all while promising to live up to their party’s legacy as the next viable candidate. Whether or not the public buys that act, he certainly has the press enthralled, and the next several days pass in a round of live interviews on all the major news networks. 

Jake busies himself looking into Sherwood’s background, his associates both past and present, his finances and marital history. From all accounts, both Raeanne and Zephar had the right of it-- behind the glossy surface polish, there are a slew of hidden agendas and possibly ethical issues. The break that Sherwood had been attempting to make from the senator’s legacy was a mess of vitriol and mud-slinging on the senator’s side, and only marginally less on Sherwood’s. It could certainly be a motive, though the manner of Senator Huntington’s death still left quite a few unanswered questions.

It’s about a week later that a very surprising visitor arrives at the precinct. He’d certainly told Raeanne Huntington to stay available in case of any further questions, but had not expected to see her at the police station, of her own volition, at the tail end of a long and grueling Thursday evening. There’d been a drive-by shooting in the slums which had resulted in the death of a teenage boy crossing the street at the wrong place and the wrong time. That the victim was a member of a street gang with an already-alarming rap sheet ranging from vandalism to possession with intent to distribute to retail fraud was beside the point-- in the grand scheme of things, he was still just an eighteen-year-old kid who’d fallen through the cracks, almost doomed from the start. The killer had been an associate of a rival gang-- the shooting had been an initiation rite. He, too, was only eighteen.

“Someone here to see you, Langdon.” 

“Oh, yay.” Jake doesn’t even raise his eyes from the fat stack of paperwork he’s finishing up on the gang shooting, until a feminine voice clearing her throat has him snapping his head up. “Ms. Huntington. What brings you here? Are you all right?”

“I… no. Not really.” Raeanne Huntington, last seen at her father’s funeral looking flawlessly aloof in a black knee-length skirt suit with a matching veiled fascinator, looks tired and surprisingly fragile now, wearing a simple purple cardigan over dark gray trousers, her hair falling straight down, sleek black like an oil slick, to her waist. Without makeup, her face looks softer, more delicate, with dark shadows underneath her violet eyes. “I had to show you something. I suppose I should ask how your day went, Detective.”

“It’s been pretty long, but that happens sometimes,” Jake answers equably. 

“I know." She pauses, and weary, somber eyes meet his own, through a veil of soft, dark lashes. "Both of them went to the school I work in.” It takes him a moment to realize that she’s referring to the shooter and the victim in that drive-by which had happened earlier in the day. “I’d tried to get through to them, but they’d already been running with the gangs for years before I’d even gotten there.” Her breath escapes in a shudder. “You tell yourself that you can’t save everyone, of course. But that doesn’t make it easier, doesn’t stop you from wondering if you could’ve done something more-- something different. But that’s not why I’m here today. It’s about my father.”

He sees the way that she tamps down her emotions, gets herself under control one breath at a time, and can’t help but admire her for it. She digs into her purse, and extracts a thin envelope. “I found this in a safety deposit box in a bank which had belonged to my father. I think you should read it. It’s… very odd, and doesn’t sound like him.”

He opens it, and it’s a short letter, handwritten, the dots on the I’s agitated slashes, the commas barely more than squiggles. It’s addressed to Raeanne, signed a simple ‘Dad’ at the end, barely two paragraphs. 

_Raeanne,_

_I know it’s too little, too late. You’ll probably never get the chance to hear this from me in person. But I’m sorry. I wasn’t, not really, but recent events have forced me to reconsider._

_I can’t bring the Foundation back. I don’t have the time, or the means. It’s scary how powerless you find yourself when you’ve thought otherwise, all your life. I can’t turn back time. All I have is a tainted legacy of money which you, true to form, are probably too proud to accept anyway. So I can do nothing but amend my will. The charities are ones I’ve known you to work with and support. I know it’s not enough._

_-Dad_

“I don’t know what to think, Detective. This doesn’t sound like him at all. But the reading of the will was today, and it’s just as he says in this letter. Three different charities-- one for helping women out of the cycle of domestic violence, another for cancer research, and a third for eliminating childhood bullying. I didn’t get anything myself aside from some of my mother’s jewelry and the deed to his residence, which is precisely as expected. But something or someone terrified him-- this letter’s written under duress, I’m sure of it. And that just makes no sense whatsoever.”

Jake reads over the letter once again, slowly. “He says that he doesn’t ‘have the time’. Like he knows that something bad is about to happen to him. And yet there is no indication of him beefing up personal security-- no phone calls to emergency services. Are you certain he wrote this letter and that it’s not some type of hoax or forgery?”

“Quite sure. It’s written on his personalized stationery, and the handwriting, though sloppy and slapdash, is his. Of course, you can bring in experts to check it against known samples, right?”

“I will, but for now I’ll take your word on it. Were there any other notable bequests in his will?”

“He bequeathed the majority of his worldly goods to various institutions around the state, as well as various political groups that he’s been known to support and patronize. There’s also a few donations to colleges around the state. Oh, and Kade Sherwood got his golf clubs and his law books. I am not quite sure that’s the windfall he was expecting.”

“I’ll find out tomorrow,” Jake decides. Sherwood would have been furious, almost justifiably so, if a man he’d more or less followed and aided for years on end passed along to him nothing more than some virtually useless secondhand trinkets. It was high time to pay the other politician a visit-- see how he was holding up. He glances at Raeanne, whose surprisingly vulnerable, unpolished demeanour is at such a stark contrast to the ice queen she’d projected at their first meeting, and clears his throat to break the tense silence. “It’s quite late. I should probably let you get home, unwind for the evening. I do appreciate you coming in and telling me.”

She grasps the hand that he holds out, but instead of giving it a shake and letting go, holds on, almost absently, their fingers linked. Her fingers are fine-boned and graceful, with neatly buffed and manicured nails, but they’re strong and warm in his. “I… I didn’t want you to think the worst of me. Or that I wasn’t being forthright.”

“I’m a Homicide Detective, Ms. Huntington,” Jake chuffs out a monosyllabic laugh. “Thinking the worst of people is sort of part of the job description, so even if I did, you can’t take it personally.”

“Well, nonetheless.” She looks down at their still-joined hands, then back up at him with one of those ironic half-smiles which for some reason, tonight, makes her look merely sad as opposed to cynical. “I’m well aware that in the eyes of the court of public opinion, there’s a 50-50 chance that I might have something to do with my father’s murder. I’m pretty sure that some of the people you work with think the same. I can’t stop the whispers, the speculation. I’ve been off work for a week and the school district has not once reached out to see if I’m ready to come back-- I don’t think they want the bad press if there comes a day that a bunch of squad cars will pull up and I’ll be escorted out in handcuffs, not when they’re already struggling for funding on a regular basis. I guess… I guess I just didn’t want everybody to think that I did it. That I’d be capable of it-- be callous and vicious enough to kill my own father over ideological differences gone sour. I know it shouldn’t matter what you think of me, but it does, for some reason.” She seems to finally belatedly realize that her hand is still clasped in his, and pulls it away, gestures the letter on his desk with a restless motion before running agitated fingers through her hair. “I shouldn’t care. Not about your opinion, or the world’s, or about a father who had no use for me. I should dismiss it as too little, too late. And yet, I can’t quite manage. Does it make me a horrible person to not quite know what I should feel right now?” 

Her voice is steady, but the fingers raking through her hair aren’t completely so, and when he looks closely, there’s a tear, beading her long, dark lashes. Though the report from the Coroner won’t be in until tomorrow, Jake knows with a bone-deep certainty that Raeanne Huntington had nothing to do with her father’s death, and the sense of relief-- unexpected and unexplained-- almost stuns him. But he gentles his tone, and lays a hand on a not-quite-steady shoulder. “No, I don’t think it does. You’re allowed to resent him for what he did and didn’t do, while grieving him all the same.” 

“I’m not… this was bound to happen. I keep telling myself that. He’s not made himself very well liked outside of those maniacs in his base, and he’s definitely screwed over multitudes of people in his years in office. I don’t know what went wrong, though. Why he didn’t care about me, or any of the people who were in the way of his ride to the top. I’m not a crier.” A few tears escape despite her fierce assertion on the last sentence, and she swipes at them with the back of one hand, like a child might after scraping her knee. “This is embarrassing.”

“I’ve dealt with worse, I promise.” Jake doesn’t exactly pull her in, but she leans towards him, and rests her forehead against his shoulder for a second, and he lets her, sliding his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back. Her hair is cool and silky against the backs of his fingers, and her breath shudders out of her for a few long moments. Both of them are too disciplined to hold on for long, but she’s steadier when she steps back, and that’s something. 

“I guess you’ll be in touch. When the Coroner’s report comes in, and so on.”

“Yes, I will. And I’ll let you know if I find out any more information from Sherwood, or any other avenues. I’ll walk you out.” They make the trek between the bullpen and the parking lot once again, this time in the moonlight, and perhaps at a slower, softer pace. Her car looks much the same as last time, though the sunglasses are out of sight. “Take care of yourself, Ms. Huntington.”

“You too, Detective. And… thank you.” 

She gives him a tremulous smile, perhaps the first genuine one he’d seen out of her, before unlocking her car, and Jake steps back as she pulls out and drives away, mulls over the new information, the exchange that they’d just had. 

This case was becoming more complicated by the minute.


	6. Complications

Jake pays a visit to Kade Sherwood’s office the next morning only to find out from the peevish bombshell receptionist that he’d not been in that morning, nor answering the phone. It’s quite possible, of course, that he’d be taking a personal day after the hoopla of the late senator’s funeral, but the receptionist certainly seemed miffed that she’d been kept out of the loop. A phone call to the man’s wife revealed that she was out of town for a long spa retreat weekend with her girlfriends, and had fully expected her husband to have shown up at the office. With a sinking feeling, Jake makes the short drive into the affluent West Side of town, where Sherwood lives, and finds the man’s shiny dark-gray Mercedes still parked in its designated spot in the parking structure. The doorman ascertains that Sherwood had not left home for the day.

That bad feeling rises up in his throat like bile as Jake ascends the elevator up to the tenth floor with the building superintendent. The door is locked, no signs of forced entry, but as soon as the Super unlocks it with his master key, the smell hits him and he knows.

“Stay in the corridor, by the elevator. Do not come in. Do not let anyone else on this floor leave their apartments. I’m calling for backup.” Jake draws his gun out of its holster. It’s mere minutes, though it feels like hours, before the first sirens sound, signalling the arrival of emergency services on that usually-quiet street. A uniformed officer is striding down the hall a handful of minutes later, and he follows Jake into the apartment.

Here, the decor runs more towards the side of ostentation, with black and gold marble flooring and a gigantic crystal chandelier overhead, a glossy white baby grand piano that barely looks touched in the parlour. The place is pristine-- nothing is missing or out of place, high-end electronics and easily-fenced jewelry and collectibles alike clutter the rooms in their proper spots. The children’s rooms feature canopy beds and pastel-coloured linens, and are equally untouched-- Sherwood’s two children would, at this moment, be in class at their exclusive private school. 

They find the man in his room, lying down on his bed, throat torn brutally open. He’s dressed for the day-- white shirt stained red with the blood which is also pooling over his bedsheets. He’d had the time to have breakfast, most likely, see his children get dropped off at school by the chauffeur, before returning to his bedroom to get ready for his own day-- a day which ended before it could even start. Jake turns away from the dead body, face grim, and calls it in. Even without the confirmation of Dr. Millbrook or any of the forensic team, it’s fairly obvious what had happened.

His prime suspect was now dead, killed in the same fashion, by the same person, as the senator. His city was now the hunting grounds of a serial killer.

** 

“Well, at least you know the lovely Ms. Huntington isn’t guilty of patricide now, no? And that is an incredible relief. An orange jumpsuit would look ghastly on her, wouldn’t it? Not to mention, it’d be awfully complicated for the two of you. Now don’t deny it, Jakey-pooh. I saw the way you two were glancing at each other whenever the other person wasn’t looking. I entirely approve, of course. She could use some loosening up, and statistically speaking, any lady who’s that adept at strutting into a room in stiletto heels has a kinky side just bubbling underneath the surface. Don’t look at me like that-- I know what I’m talking about!”

“Why do I even bother trying to reason with you?” Jake mutters darkly under his breath. It had been three days since Kade Sherwood had been found killed in his own home, and the media shit show is in full swing. “Now we’re back at Square One, and there’s a serial killer out on the loose, and the media is about to eat us alive over these two dead politicians. You are far too chipper, considering the circumstances.”

“No, see, _you_ are the one who has nothing to be chipper about,” Zephar proclaims with an infuriating smirk on his face. “ _Me_ on the other hand… don’t you ever get a warm fuzzy feeling when you hear that the population of your hometown has grown by two? You should. And eating someone alive is not as easy as one thinks it is. There’s all that hair and viscera and toenails and such to think about. Toenails and armpit hair are disgusting, even by underworld standards.”

“I’m still not understanding what exactly killed them, even with the first Coroner’s report. No tool known to mankind made those wounds. And there’s not enough blood, in both cases, considering the severed arteries. There are deep punctures in the flesh of both victims, and no DNA at either scene. Dr. Millbrook is calling in experts and taking a closer look, but this is going to keep her busy for a while. And until we have a definitive answer for what killed both Senator Huntington and Sherwood, I don’t even know where to turn to look for another person of interest.”

“We could always go visit the delightful Dr. Darling and see how she’s progressing, if she needs any help. She might not know who offed your two stiffs yet, but perhaps after a nap and a bite to eat she’ll have a better idea. That lady certainly works too hard and doesn’t let loose whatsoever.”

“You know, for a lewd, morally bankrupt creature from Hell, you’re kind of sounding like a concerned boyfriend right now. I don’t know whether that’s adorable or scary.”

“I am Zephar the Lustful, 16th Spirit Duke of Hell. I can afford to be both at the same time. But I have no experience being anything even remotely similar to a ‘concerned boyfriend’, so I have no idea what you might be talking about.”

“Well. It’s where you care about a woman, value her happiness and well-being as though it were your own. Outside of mere attraction, you want to see her happy and healthy, and when she has any problems, you want to take them away.”

“So you’re saying that outside of wanting to fuck her brains out, I apparently also want to see her smile? Well, obviously. She has a nice smile. It takes some coaxing, but there’s nothing wrong with a challenge. You must understand, I get bored here, sometimes! I can’t actually go about razing your city and running amok without giving you a heart attack. So I must keep in good fighting shape in other ways.”

“So you mean to tell me that hitting on our Coroner is your new vocation? Now that you’re out of Hell and can’t just go around killing people and burning shit down? I’m not quite understanding your logic here, but okay.” 

“Well, it’s highly enjoyable and less likely to get you narky at me because of my supposedly breaking your pesky laws and whatnot. I could, of course, go back to Hell. There’s a perfectly good barbed wire whip with my name on it that’s just waiting to flay the skin off the backs of the latest two residents. But I… I enjoy it here.” The demon looks almost uncertain of how Jake might take that admission, then rallies on, recovering his usual nonchalance. “They don’t have any good food down there, either. No food whatsoever, except on the Gluttony floor, and what’s there is generally mouldy and infested with maggots and other vermin. Cockroach pizza with a side of _E. coli_ , anyone?”

“That is revolting.” Jake sighs, and rubs his temples. “I just wish there were other places to gather intel. There’s so much freaking red tape involved with politics that trying to get a straight answer out of anybody is like pulling teeth.”

“I don’t quite understand that human analogy, as teeth come out quite handily with a good pair of pliers or a nice blunt object to the mouth. Perhaps not pleasantly or cleanly, but it’s not difficult. And of course there are places to gather intel. Where in the world do you think I learnt of that poker game, pray tell? Certainly not some slum dive serving raw gin and cheap Scotch.” A glint, like a flare of autumnal red on a bright green leaf, enters Zephar’s gaze. “Come to think of it, we’re overdue for a night on the town, aren’t we? That settles it, it’s a date. Do find something pretty to wear, honeybunch. I don’t want people to think I’ve lowered my standards.”

“We are NOT dating. Ever.” Jake grumbles. “Dare I ask where we’re going?”

“Oh, you’ve passed it numerous times. It’s a cafe called Tempête, on Oakwood Avenue.”

“Isn’t that some hippie new age cafe? I think I’ve seen the write-up on the Times. Tea-leaf reading and tarot cards and the like.”

“Well. Yes. During the day shift.” Zephar’s grin widens. “The night shift is different, altogether.”


	7. Your Heartbeat

The cafe, Tempête, is closed up by the time they arrive, its forest-green curtains pulled shut, the gold-and-green painted door sign stating that it would be open for business again the next day at 10AM. Zephar, however, walks around the building to the stairs leading to the service entrance below, and knocks on the door. Much to Jake’s surprise, it springs open a crack, though a tall, burly man blocks their path. He’s a good half a head taller than either of them, with a mane of tawny hair and inscrutable golden-brown eyes, arms the size of Christmas hams crossed over a broad chest. “Password?”

“ _Suum cuique_ , my friend.”

“Very well.” The golden-brown eyes give Jake an appraising once-over, then turn back onto Zephar’s face. “You know the rules, Lord Zephar. Keep your companion in line within my doors.”

“He’s a paragon of virtue, I promise. We’re just here to take in some drinks and conversation. Your Sylvie makes an outstanding bloody martini.”

“Yes, she does.” A hint of a smile crosses that broad face, and he steps back, holding an inner door open. “Welcome to Sérénité.”

Jake isn’t quite sure what he’d expected when they’d arrived, but this is certainly not it. The basement floor of the airy-fairy new age cafe seems to be a thriving nightclub and bar, done up in the glamourous yet mysterious style of a speakeasy in the Roaring Twenties. On a stingy slice of stage is a battered old piano, where an old man with a wizened face and an actual pair of batlike wings noodles at the keys, accompanying a female singer warbling torch ballads into a microphone. The singer has a sheaf of platinum blonde hair and a face which might have graced a Victorian cameo, but her lower body-- all powerful, ripping silver scales, coils around the microphone stand like a boa constrictor, slithering in time to the music. Zephar, supremely unfazed, clamps a hand around a shell-shocked Jake’s arm and guides him over to the bar, leading him over to a pair of empty seats next to a pair of lovers busy making out-- one of whom has a pair of cat ears on his or her head.

“Sylvie! You look beautiful as ever.” Zephar holds out a hand for the lady behind the bar, then kisses her fingers lavishly. She’s tall and buxom, long coils of auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a jingling collection of bangles and rings adorning her fingers and wrists. “Jakey-pooh, this lovely lady is Sylvie Marie Comeau, the proprietress of both Tempête and Sérénité, and also the wife of Niall-- the big scary man at the door-- who most certainly doesn’t deserve such a jewel as this.”

“Ever the shameless flatterer, _Cher_. Your usual, then?” Sylvie has a hint of a charming accent that Jake has a little bit of trouble placing, and seems to take Zephar’s flirting in stride. Whatever drink she sets in front of the demon, however, glows a dark, eerie blood-red. “And what will your friend be having?”

“Probably a very boring beer. No eye of newt or toe of frog. He has a delicate constitution.”

Jake bristles at the idea that he, a Homicide Detective of all people, would have a ‘delicate constitution’, but says nothing. The woman, Sylvie, sets down a foam-topped mug of an unidentified golden beer in front of him, and he takes a cautious taste. It’s a very nice lager, reminiscent of a Stella Artois, and he takes a larger sip. “Dare I ask what it is that you ordered?”

“Bloody martini, as I told you, lad. Gin and vermouth with a splash of pig’s blood, garnished with a nightshade berry on a pick. Don’t worry-- specialty drinks such as these aren’t made or served in the same set of shakers and glasses as your boring beer and mortal spirits.” Zephar takes a sip of his drink, and licks the blood-red off his lower lip sinuously. “This place is a hub for all the creatures, human and non-human alike, who walk these streets. All differences are set aside at the door. No matter what breed, and what you might have done, you’re welcome to get some rest and respite here, find some serenity, as the name implies.”

“And everyone’s just… okay with it?”

“It’s co-owned by a Voodoo queen and a powerful Shifter. Most would think twice before starting any trouble.” Zephar angles his gaze over towards the entrance, and much to Jake’s shock, Niall is nowhere to be seen, and in his place, prowling on velvety paws, is a muscular, golden-eyed black panther.

“Is that…?”

“Yep. It’s even cooler when he turns into a dragon, but he doesn’t usually do that indoors. Low-hanging ceilings and flammable liquids everywhere, you know?” Zephar takes another sip of his drink, then grins as a curvaceous female in a red dress sidles up to the bar. “Well met, Desdemona.”

Desdemona says something that Jake can’t hear, her voice a dry rustle like a gust of autumn wind. Her face, when she turns it towards them, has a thin line of blood trailing from one temple, disappearing into the tawny curls of her hair. Her face is beautiful, but her eyes are completely black, like voids. She smiles, though, despite Jake’s wide-eyed stare, and turns to Zephar again, mumbles something else in her wispy voice before gliding off.

“What… what was that?”

“Oh, a Red Lady. Fairly benign as far as ghosts go. Desdemona committed suicide by jumping out of a window about two hundred years some odd back, when her lover got killed during the Civil War. She’s got a bit of a soft spot for me, you see, because I could’ve brought her in-- suicides, of course, are destined for Hell-- but I’d sort of accidentally-on-purpose fumbled the paperwork. So now she’s doomed to roam the Earth, but there’s no harm in it. She keeps me apprised of strange goings-on involving the undead, usually. Pretty girl, and kind-hearted, quiet. People tell her stuff.”

“And she just told you…”

“She said that there’s a restlessness in the dream-world of the living, and a great evil begotten by human avarice, and perhaps my mortal friend should start carrying a bit of cold iron on him for self-protection.”

“I carry a badge and a gun.”

“And a Glock 9mm isn’t iron. I’d listen if I were you, lad. Desdemona’s not a liar. You can ask Sylvie for something, I’m sure. It does worry me that Dezzie doesn’t know any more than that, though. I’m sure she’s bound to find out more as time goes on, but you already have two dead guys in the course of weeks, and that sort of skews the timetable in a bad way.” Zephar flags down the lady in question, hands her a wad of cash. Sylvie raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything before walking away, returning a few moments later to set a small, rusty nail down on the bartop in front of Jake.

“Horseshoe nail. It’ll do,” Zephar decides as he picks it up, then drops it into Jake’s jacket pocket. “Now stop looking so glum! We’re here to enjoy ourselves, too! Finish your beer and watch the show-- the singer’s really quite good, for all she’s got a taste for human flesh. Don’t look so scared, though! You’re a bit too old for her preferences-- she prefers stillborn infants. Easier to swallow whole and digest. And, besides, the rules prohibit any in-fighting and such within these walls. Everything will be peachy!”

Jake swallows the rest of his beer if only to wash the taste of bile out of his mouth after hearing that.

**

Once he gets over the fact that his demon’s informant is a suicidal ghost lady and that the evening’s entertainment comes from some flesh-eating Lamia, Jake finds the bar surprisingly enjoyable. Everyone’s there to unwind and have a good time, and there are no spats or bar fights. Sylvie roams the bar from one side to the other, sometimes with the panther walking docilely at her side, and serves up drink orders both ordinary and outlandish. She also sets down a plate of some type of spicy chicken and rice, though Jake is sure that he hadn’t ordered it, and it proves to be delicious.

He’s about halfway through the food when his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out to check. The number listed is the Coroner’s office, but that makes very little sense. Amelia keeps some fairly late hours, but even as such, he wouldn’t expect her to be at work now. Nonetheless, he steps away from the bar, finds a quiet corner, and calls her back.

The phone rings off the hook, until an automated message declaring that the caller has reached the Coroner’s Office after-hours, and asking for a detailed message with a callback number, plays in his ear. Bemused, he returns to his seat at the bar, only to find both Zephar and Sylvie eyeing him curiously.

“Everything all right there, Jakey?”

“I had a missed call from the Coroner’s Office, but then when I went to call back, no one answered. I don’t think Amelia should still be there at this hour. She works late, but not this late.”

Before Zephar could even say anything, Sylvie’s breath comes out in a harsh gasp, her eyes rolling back in her head as she stumbles back. Her bracelets jangle ominously as she grips the edge of the bar for stability, and within the blink of an eye, a golden falcon flies over the heads of the patrons, lands on her shoulder before morphing into the broad-shouldered form of Niall, who catches his wife around the waist. “You need to go, Detective Jake Langdon,” she says flatly as her eyes come back into focus. “You and Lord Zephar need to leave _right now._ It’s hunting her. Niall will take you. He’ll meet you outside.” The couple exchange one long, wordless look in the way of happily married couples everywhere, then Niall plants a kiss on his wife’s lips, and disappears off into the shadows. Sylvie lets out a ragged exhale, then pulls a little cloth bag out of one of her pockets. “Gris-gris. For protection. An obsidian stone. Holly and Pennyroyal tied together with a bit of lace from a wedding veil. An alpha wolf’s fangs. A few drops of Angelica oil. Put your bit of cold iron into there, Detective, and tie it to your belt. Go-- go!”

They make their way outside, and whatever Jake might have been expecting, it’s certainly not the dark, hulking shape of a winged dragon spanning half the back parking lot. “ _That’s_ what she meant by Niall will take us?”

“Well. It’s faster than crossing town through all the traffic lights, if a bit windy. Hop on, it’s just like riding there in a helicopter but minus all the noise.”

The dragon lifts up into the air, indeed much in the way a helicopter would, except in complete silence. “How is it possible that people on the ground can’t see us?” Jake asks Zephar, while clinging onto the scaly neck of the giant reptile for dear life as Niall crosses the span of a city block in a matter of seconds.

“We’re high enough up not to be noticed as more than a cloud crossing the sky. Indeed, be happy you’re cuddled up to me, because you’d be half-frozen now, otherwise. I, being what I am, currently function much as a space heater for your silly mortal self.” Despite his calm tone, Jake feels the tension in the slim, wiry body coiled behind him, the underlying agitation beneath the surface. “Well. At the rate Niall is going, we’ll be to Dr. Darling’s laboratory in about three minutes.”

Indeed, probably a little less than that. The dragon no sooner alights in the deserted parking lot than he morphs back into a man. “I can’t stay. But be safe, the both of you.” Now without the need to bear both their weights, he morphs into a falcon again, and wings his way back across the night sky even as Jake approaches the main doors with his gun drawn.

It’s unlocked, and the building is ominously silent, though all the lights remain on. “Amelia? Are you in here?” Jake calls out, making his cautious way down the main corridor. Nothing. The autopsy lab is lit up, but empty as well, operating table scrubbed down to gleaming. But out of the corner of his eye, he spots a shadow, then hears a skittering noise like the pitter-patter of retreating footsteps. He turns, gun drawn, but whatever it was is gone. The gris-gris hooked onto his belt loop is all but vibrating.

Then he hears a shriek-- one that he has difficulty recognizing, unearthly and blood-curdling, coming from the direction of Amelia’s office, and runs over to find Zephar down on his knees, both arms wrapped protectively around the unconscious Coroner’s body. He quickly lowers the gun, barks into his radio for an ambulance before rushing over towards Zephar. “Let me see her. Is she alive? I know CPR.”

The sound that the demon lets out is best described as a snarl, the way a wolf might warn an interloper away from its cub. Zephar rears his head back, baring teeth too sharp to be human, ruby-red eyes glinting with a feral light even as he clutches the unconscious woman closer to him. Jake knows, without a word, that if he were to reach for Amelia now, he’s liable to get a hand torn off at the wrist, and wonders a bit at what that means for the demon’s emotional state. Certainly it’s unheard of for Zephar to attach himself thus to a mortal for any reason. Jake slows his approach, in the cautious manner of one walking towards a wounded, cornered animal. The service Glock in his hand would serve no protection against the demon if it were to attack, and… and in a strange way, the demon had become a friend, one he was unwilling to kill. “Zephar, it’s me. Jake. Let me see her and help her.”

No response but another growl, savage and primordial. Jake hunches down, holsters his gun, but it isn’t until Amelia stirs in Zephar’s arms that the vengeance and bloodlust retreat, little by little, out of the demon’s eyes. Slowly and carefully, with a gentleness that Jake had never seen out of him before, Zephar eases her into a sitting position, still holding her close to his chest. It’s several minutes or hours later that the young doctor finally opens her eyes, lets out a shallow, labored breath. “Mr. Smith-- Jake? You’re here.”

“You called, then didn’t answer when I called back. I was worried,” Jake says slowly, peering into Amelia’s pallid face. Her lips are almost colourless, as though she’d not been able to breathe for the last few minutes. “What happened?”

“I… I was finalizing the reports on the senator and Sherwood,” Amelia mumbles, her words half-muffled against Zephar’s collar. “And it was like I was stuck in a nightmare, or a horror movie. The lights kept flickering. I kept hearing the sound of footsteps-- quick, scrabbling ones, like a rat skittering across a gutter. And then I felt something on my chest, like a weight. Alive, almost. Like if you were lying down on a couch and a cat or dog sat down on you for a cuddle. But it kept getting colder, and heavier, suffocating. I dialed your number, but I think I passed out. I don’t really understand what happened. I’m quite healthy, with no history of heart or respiratory problems.”

“Well, the ambulance is on its way,” Jake reassures her, glancing carefully at Zephar’s face. The pretty, androgynous features are grim and ferocious, and he has yet to let the woman go. “They’re going to check you out. Make sure you’re okay. You might want to stay at the hospital tonight for observation, just in case.” Because whatever had gotten to her was likely still lurking in the area. Jake was willing to bet his badge on it.

“All right,” Amelia doesn’t protest, and absently grasps the fabric of Zephar’s collar with her fingertips to pull herself into a more upright position, then glances up into the face of the demon with a drowsy, quizzical look. “I can’t seem to hear your heartbeat. Even though I should, leaning against you like this, shouldn’t I?”

“Oh, Dr. Darling,” Zephar runs his fingers with astonishing gentleness through her short, dark hair, then caresses the nape of her neck. A wry, yet slightly wistful smile crosses his lips, even as they brush against the top of her head with the lightness of a butterfly’s wings. “I don’t have a heart, ask anybody. But if I did, I’m sure it would beat for you.”


	8. Making The Call

Jake waits until the ambulance has taken Amelia off the property, then goes in search of Zephar. He finds the latter out in a wooded area behind the building, and raises an eyebrow. In the span of perhaps fifteen minutes, no less than three trees had fallen to the ground, and the air reeked of sulphur and ozone. A deer carcass lay mangled in the clearing, its head missing. Zephar sat on a stump, shoulders hunched, his fine shirt stained with dirt and blood, his hands criss-crossed with cuts and scrapes from the splintered wood. “You okay?”

“It followed her for no other reason than proximity. Because she’d been around them.” Zephar spits out, and Jake jumps back as another tree branch snaps off, falls to the ground with a crash. “It didn’t know, or care. Why would it, really? It’s simply _hungry_.”

“Amelia is fine,” Jake says slowly, approaching the tense, hunched figure with great caution. “The EMT’s took her vitals, brought her in for observation. She’s taking a day off work tomorrow, not to fret.” With a fatalistic sort of bravery, he steps forward, stops in Zephar’s direct path. “I know that we won’t let anything happen to her. You seem to know what’s after her, even. That’s halfway there to stopping it, right?”

“It’s a demon!” Zephar bursts out, and finally lifts his head, and in the years of their acquaintance, Jake had never seen him look nearly so anguished. “A _Draugr_. Undoubtedly someone who’d been fucked over by the senator and perhaps his minion in its lifetime, now out for revenge. It got its revenge on the senator-- killed him and drank the blood-- that’s why you don’t have nearly as much blood on the crime scene as you should-- then followed suit with Sherwood. And then, for no other reason than their bodies ended up in the morgue, found her for its next meal. It’s a horrible death, Jake. A week of stalking in nightmares and waking dreams, followed by sleep paralysis, bouts of slow suffocation as it sits on its victim’s chest. And then it tears the person’s throat out and drinks. And it’s after Amelia now, for no other reason than she’s _there_ and _convenient_!”

“And it will have to go through you and me both before it can get to her,” Jake reassures the distraught demon. “We should go home. Or, if you want to, go to the hospital, keep an eye on her. You could use some first aid yourself. Those cuts look pretty nasty.”

“Oh, I’ll heal in two shakes,” Zephar shouts, scornfully. “None of these paltry scratches could put me under. Her, on the other hand-- in a few days, she’d be found just like those two politicians, Jake! Dead in her bed in a pool of blood. And I would’ve laid waste to your city, blinded by my grief, and that’s a thought that terrifies me as much as anything else! I barely know the woman. She arrived a mere few months ago-- a blink in my eternity! And yet…”

His breath shudders out, almost a sob, and Jake lays a hand on the slim but powerful shoulder. “It’s not a weakness to-- to care for people, Zephar. To make friends, or fall in love with a beautiful woman. It’s not about how long you’ve known someone, or how long you might have together. It’s about how you feel about each other, and cherishing every moment that you do have.” A soft laugh escapes between his lips. “I won’t be around forever, either. You can go back to doing all the drugs your little demonic heart desires in the apartment. But for what it’s worth, you’ve become a good friend in the time that we’ve had, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Trust a Homicide Detective on this, Zephar-- life is precious. Be happy for every minute.”

Zephar seems to mull this over, then come to a slow, perhaps reluctant resolution. Gradually, he unbends, and stands up. “I need you to make a call for me, Jake.”

“No problem.” Jake pulls out his cell phone, unlocks it. “Who?”

“Wilson.” Zephar’s bloody lips curve up in a fatalistic grin. “As in Kane Wilson, the demon hunter. Hopefully he’ll listen to my tale before burning me to ash, but if he doesn’t… well. Calculated risk, wouldn’t you say? Much as I despise the overgrown trench-coat-wearing, crossbow-wielding lout, he’s the best in his unsavoury line of business. If he does waste me, you’re welcome to all my worldly possessions, of course, as long as you explain to him what in Home Sweet Home is going on and he agrees to put an end to it before it gets any worse.”

**

Getting a hold of Kane Wilson is more easily said than done-- it involves leaving a message with a certain skip trace agency, which would then set up the contact to Wilson’s personal line. It’s not unlike attempting to trace the location and phone number of a kidnapper calling in a ransom, but at the hour of three in the morning, Wilson calls Jake back on his cell from an unknown number. Jake, keeping vigil at the hospital along with a sleepless Zephar, quickly explains the situation, keeping his voice low so that it doesn’t echo in the deserted waiting room. 

“I’ve just gotten back in town, actually,” Wilson’s voice, gritty and low as broken asphalt, sounds in his ear. “Had a bit of a situation in Quezon City in the Phillippines-- an _Aswang_ had infiltrated a noble house and caused a bit of an uproar.”

“Well, you’ve returned to a bit of an uproar, I’ve got to tell you. I’m sure you’ve been keeping up with the dead politicians on the news, even on the other side of the world.”

“They didn’t make themselves very popular.”

“No, that they didn’t. But this isn’t politically motivated, or even human.” Jake takes a deep breath. “It’s a _Draugr_ , and it’s now attached itself to our Coroner. She just got taken to the ER tonight. I’m in the waiting room.”

“Hospitals are really not my scene, Langdon.”

“Well, yeah, because they tend to look askance when a six-foot-five guy carrying a full-on arsenal on his person comes through the door. It makes everyone nervous. I’ll meet you in the parking lot if you’d prefer. I don’t think I could leave, altogether. Zephar’s here with me, and he’s going nowhere.”

“He’s still alive?” The gravelly voice scoffs into the phone. “Why haven’t you tossed him back into Hell where he belongs with some Clary sage and a good hard dunking in Holy Water? No worries-- I can handle that when I see you.”

“NO, Wilson! He’s not the enemy-- not this time. Please. He’s changed.”

“A demon doesn’t shed his tail after a mere handful of years, and Lord Zephar the Lustful has commanded whole legions of the damned against God and humanity,” Kane declares. “He’s a creature of excesses, of discord and chaos and villainy, and all humans are playthings to the likes of him. Your loyalty in the creature is surely misplaced.”

“He’s not the soulless fiend that you think he is, Wilson. He’s the one who asked for you, actually.” Jake huffs out a breath. “He’s got a bit of a… soft spot, shall we say… for our Coroner. And he acknowledges that you are the best man for the job ahead. I really do think that if she fell to this _Draugr_ , he’d lose what humanity he’d gained in his time here. And you and I both know what damage he could do, if that’s the case. You should imagine what it costs him to call for someone like you to exterminate one of his kind, for no other reason than it had threatened a woman he cared for. It’s a betrayal of everything he’s ever known, and yet he’s not hesitating. But all that’s beside the point. Are you going to come or not?”

A long, windy sigh on the other end of the line. “I’d just finished dropping off a bunch of stuff at Melusine’s that I borrowed for this latest romp in the Phillippines.”

“Well, I’ll be here all night, so once you’ve had your nice cozy reunion dinner with the lovely Melusine, feel free to come on over.”

“It’s not like that, Langdon!”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few hours.”


	9. The Demon Hunter And The Witch

Jake, used to sleeping very lightly in a squad car or at his desk, snoozes in an uncomfortable hospital chair, but starts awake at the sound of a motorcycle revving its engine as it approaches from outside. Next to him, awake but sullen, Zephar barely turns his head. “That’d be one specimen of Sanctimonious Mercenary For Hire, arriving on premises, wouldn’t it?”

“Something like that. Stay put. I’ll go talk to him.”

“As if I was going to roll out the bloody red carpet anyway. You can deal with Wilson. Someone needs to stay here in case anything changes with Dr. Darling, and she holds so much more appeal than the thought of dealing with That One. Mind, so does picking up a rabid skunk by its tail, but that’s beside the point.”

Jake rolls his eyes, but doesn’t dignify that with a response as he makes his way out of the waiting room and to the hospital parking lot. Kane Wilson looks much as he always had-- tall, lean, silvery blond hair still a little too long underneath the motorcycle helmet that he removes and hangs up on the burly black-and-chrome Harley Davidson. There’s a faint scar on his left cheek, showing up in sharp relief against his tanned skin, and his eyes, gun-metal grey, are watchful and alert despite what must have been a brutal return flight and horrendous jet lag. The black bomber jacket is cut well to fit the demon hunter’s broad shoulders, but Jake would bet his badge that underneath the smooth leather is a motley assortment of short-range weaponry to add to the full-sized crossbow hooked onto the bike and the katana strapped to his back. There’s also a Beretta handgun holstered at Wilson’s belt, and a baton which looks almost like a standard police issue.

“How do you get through airport security, Wilson? Like, _ever_? Let alone on an international flight-- Phillippines, wasn’t it?”

“Overseas clients typically pay the shipping and handling. Like I’d said on the phone, it was a noble house. They just wanted the _Aswang_ gone.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have the freight of a noble Filipino house to deal with… whatever we’re dealing with. A _Draugr_ , apparently. Whatever _Draugrs_ are meant to be.”

“The plural form of ‘ _Draugr_ ’ is ‘ _Draugar_ ’. It’s a Scandinavian zombie of sorts, though that is a bit of an over-simplification.” 

“Right, well, you’re the expert. My knowledge tends to be limited to the human variety of scum of the Earth.” Jake rolls his shoulders-- it had truly been a very long night. “First things first-- is our Coroner safe to return home, and go about her business, or is that going to be a problem?”

“I’d take a few days off if I were her, if I could. And if not, I’d not stay in the morgue all day, that’s for certain. Does she live alone?”

“I’m fairly sure, yes.”

“We could always ask Melusine to ward her home. It wouldn’t do much good in the long run, but might buy her a bit of time. Oh, and please tell me the two dead politicians got cremated.”

“The senator didn’t-- he had to have a state funeral, you know. Closed casket, though.”

“Yeah, about that…” Kane Wilson idly spins a throwing knife that he’d pulled out of seemingly nowhere on the tip of one finger. “Those killed by _Draugar_ are more often than not turned into _Draugar_ themselves. So we likely have more than one problem on our hands at this point.”

“Oh, that’s just fucking fantastic.” Jake sighs slowly. “I suppose we’ll have to exhume the body and do… whatever.”

“First order of business, of course, is to find the identity of the original _Draugr_ \-- who they might’ve been in life. They typically come out to attack if their tombs are disturbed or someone comes after their treasure. Then it’ll be a matter of decapitating the body, burning it all to ash, and throwing the ashes into the ocean, then welding the tomb shut with iron so that no part of what remains can escape. Finally, you consecrate that site with Holy Water so it can’t cross over the threshold any more to do any mischief. You’ll have to do the same with the senator, to be on the safe side. It might even be him and not the original creature haunting your Coroner-- his original ‘tomb’, as it were, would’ve been the morgue, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s true. I’ll have to get permission from the next-of-kin to… get all of this done.” Jake envisions the prospect of explaining all of this to Raeanne Huntington, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m going to get some caffeine in my system before I handle that one. She’s going to think I’ve finally lost my mind.” 

“Probably get some sleep. You sort of look like shit. Women tend to think men are crazy if they start rambling on about stuff that makes no sense while looking like shit.”

“No idea how Melusine puts up with your ugly ass then, Wilson,” Jake quips. “I’m going back to my comfy chair in the waiting room, then. There’s no dragging Zephar away from here until the sun rises, at least. He’ll want to see his lady, alive and well for one more day. We can talk tomorrow afternoon after we’ve all gotten a bit of rest, figure out a plan of action.”

“ _For the last time, it’s not like that with Melusine_!”

Jake ignores that too-quick, too-vehement denial, and turns back to the direction of the hospital building. 

**

After a much-needed nap and shower and a bit of wheeling and dealing at the precinct, Jake arranges to take the afternoon to meet up with Kane Wilson. Zephar tags along, jittery and nowhere near his usually carefree self. Dr. Millbrook had been released from the hospital with a clean bill of health, and despite vigorous protests, insisted on returning to work the day after next. Jake had driven her home, and made a point to check all doors and windows-- a task which he was afraid would be futile against the supernatural element, and had to then dissuade his antsy roommate from summoning a hellhound or the like to guard her until further measures could be put into place.

“Women don’t like to be told what to do, Zephar. Or smothered. You’re better off just checking on her, talking to her honestly about your concerns. And besides, you said that she’d be safe enough during the daylight hours.”

“But Wilson’s a pompous ass, and this might take longer than expected especially if he takes it into his head to attempt to kill me on sight! A three-headed dog wouldn’t necessarily stop a _Draugr_ , but it’d sure provide an ample distraction-- or meal-- thus sparing Dr. Darling from its wrath.”

“A three-headed dog would also cause a huge uproar in her neighbourhood. And I just don’t see Dr. Millbrook as the hellhound type of girl.”

“What about a hellcat?”

Jake is spared the necessity of replying as they arrive at the prearranged location. Morningstar Antiquities is a shop in a fashionable part of town, more up-and-coming than old money, selling the sort of fancy home decor and jewelry that certainly went above the pay grade of someone in the police force. The place even smells rich-- some lemony and herbal cleaner over the scent of hand-carved hardwood and leatherbound books and candlewax and fresh tea. The moment they tug the door open-- a door well adorned with a windchime of rainbow-coloured crystals, they hear the mad yowl of a cat, then a female voice, words spoken too softly to discern, but in an obviously scolding tone. Jake eyes Zephar, who shrugs.

“Cats don’t like us. We’re too much alike, they feel threatened.”

“Sorry about that!” In a flurry of voluminous skirts and golden hair, Melusine Fairchild, the local witch who owns the shop, dashes down the steps with a jingle of hammered gold necklaces and hoop earrings. “Artemis is a bit antsy around strangers, but he’s in the crate now. Blessed Be, Detective Langdon. And well met, I suppose, Lord Zephar.”

“Yes, please don’t bless me, woman. That never goes over well,” Zephar says with a shake of his head. “Sorry for inconveniencing you and all that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” The witch, who looks nothing like the green skinned, warty-nosed Halloween variety, smiles at both of them, cobalt blue eyes glinting in amusement. “I just put up some tea. But I know you lot are about to talk shop, so I could switch that for brandy if I must.”

“She condones day-drinking _and_ has a pretty face? Wilson, you lucky bastard,” Zephar quips in a heartfelt voice. “Jake here is on-duty, but I never turn down brandy, sweeting.”

They follow Melusine through the shop, and the witch pauses to give a few quick directions to the perky-looking shopgirl, requesting that they not be interrupted for an hour. Then, it’s up a narrow flight of stairs through the back and into a loft on the second level. As soon as the door opens, they can hear the cat yowling again.

“Artemis! They are guests, and are here on my invitation. Be the gentleman that I know you are fully capable of being, if you please!” Melusine turns her face towards a very fluffy, very white and very indignant looking cat currently shut up in a crate. “It’s just one little demon, stop panicking!”

“Excuse me, madam, I am not little by any stretch of the imagination, just ask anyone who’s been fortunate enough to experience it!”

“And that list is probably the length of a Russian novel,” Kane interjects dryly, giving Zephar a disdainful look. “As randy as ever, I see.”

“And maybe if you smashed on something other than supernatural creatures, you’d be less of a pillock.” Zephar retorts. “Clearly, the good old tube sock and box of tissue and bottle of hand lotion isn’t cutting it any more.”

“Guys, can we save the dick-measuring contest for some other time and place? I’m sure this isn’t an appropriate setting, and isn’t respectful at all to Melusine.” Jake interjects before the two could get deeper into their bickering. 

“My apologies, dear lady.” Zephar bows over the witch’s hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles, and looks supremely unconcerned at the scowl that Kane sends his way. “Right. Brandy and shop talk, nothing inappropriate whatsoever!”

“You should poison his brandy,” Kane mutters to Melusine, who rolls her eyes. Soon, though, they’re seated around a table with their respective drinks, and Jake recaps the situation for the demon hunter and the witch, starting with the death of the senator and ending with him and Zephar finding Dr. Millbrook unconscious in her own laboratory office. 

“Oh, the poor lady… well first things first, obviously. We’ll have to see to it that at least for the time being, she’s kept safe. A bit of cold iron on her door and Holy Water just to start, at the very least, but I’d prefer to do a full Ward and Blessing. Do you think you could talk her into that?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. Thanks, Melusine.” 

She beams prettily, sips her tea. Wilson, sans leather jacket indoors but still visibly armed, leans forward. 

“Did you make any progress with finding out who the original _Draugr_ might have been, Langdon?”

“The list of people who’ve actually threatened his life is-- in your words-- about the length of a Russian novel,” Jake says dryly. “But I’ve narrowed it down to about twenty, within the parameters of local, of Northern European descent, and deceased within the last five years.”

“I’m sure you can narrow it down further once you’ve researched cause of death and manner of burial-- any cremations can be eliminated. After that, it will be a fairly simple matter to look at burial sites for signs of disturbance.”

“I think you and I can team up, Wilson. I’ll do the legwork and you can check for… whatever it is that you’d be looking for, once it’s narrowed down. And Melusine and Zephar can go talk to Amelia, ward her home and workplace.”

Kane shoots Zephar a dubious look. “You are sending a demon to help ward a residence? Isn’t that like sending a wolf to assist a shepherd in counting his sheep?”

“Oh, come off it, Wilson! I’m not here to lay waste to the bloody town yet, but if you don’t off this _Draugr_ before it attacks Dr. Darling again, I’ll be laying waste to you!”

“He can come with me, Kane,” Melusine lays a calming hand on Kane’s wrist. “The lady doesn’t know who I am, after all. And I’m sure she’s not eager to let a stranger into her home after what she’d been through. Perhaps it’s best that Lord Zephar comes along to explain things. Although…” Here she aims an apologetic look at Zephar. “You know, of course, that I’ll have to ward every entry-point in the place, which means anointing the door and window thresholds with Holy Water and putting up all manner of talismans and herbs and crystals. And… it’s bound to be uncomfortable for you.”

Zephar shrugs, and a fatalistic, devil-may-care grin crosses his lips. “By which you mean it’s bound to smoke me out a bit during the process, and burn me, possibly severely, when I come back out, yeah? At least you’ll know that it’s working, wouldn’t you?”


	10. The Price Of Protection

Dr. Amelia Millbrook lives in a modestly appointed first-floor flat in a brownstone on a quiet tree-lined street, only a handful of bus-stops away from her workplace, and by mutual agreement, Melusine takes it upon herself to drive. Zephar climbs into the passenger side of her work van’s cab, feeling a bit ill-at-ease as the witch pulls the vehicle into the flow of traffic. There’s a string of amber beads hanging from the rearview mirror, ending with a teardrop-shaped pendant featuring a honeybee trapped in the resin, and the music piped in from the radio is something airy and ethereal, heavy on harp and flutes. 

“Not a rock and roll fan, are you?”

“I listen to it on occasion,” Melusine’s lips quirk in a faint smile. “Not before I have a task which requires finesse and concentration, though. Is that what you prefer to listen to, Lord Zephar?”

“It’s quite tolerable. I can’t on principle support Black Metal groups posturing as Satanists, though. Loud, untalented poseurs, the lot of them, killing chickens and screeching about death in an obvious attempt to draw attention away from the fact that not a one of them can play guitar to save their lives. As if chicken-killing is an interesting pastime, pah! The creatures are small and fairly defenseless. If they wanted real street cred, they should be killing rattlesnakes. Or hungry grizzly bears.”

“I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work out well onstage.” Melusine slides him a sidelong look as she parks the van at the side of the street. “Do you want to tell your lady that we’re here, perhaps?”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps I should actually look the part-- at least, as much as one can, before the burning and choking portions of today’s scheduled festivities.” Zephar waves a hand, and his wrinkled shirt and tousled hair are immediately restored to rights. Another wave, and a bouquet of white flowers and silvery-green foliage appears in his grasp, filling the cab of the vehicle with a seductive yet chilly sort of fragrance. “One lovelorn suitor coming right up, wouldn’t you say?”

“White poppies for remembrance, asphodel for regrets, and wormwood for sorrows. What a melancholy selection.” 

Zephar raises his chin. “There’s not exactly a large selection from which to choose, you know. The boss isn’t much of a gardener. Hell of an architect, though. The City of Dis has some fantastic towers. Very artistic flames.”

“Mmm. Thankfully, I think we can help you a bit. It needs a dash of colour.” Melusine spots a lilac tree just starting to bloom in the front of the building, and with the agility of a cat, clambers halfway up the trunk, skirts notwithstanding, and plucks a few of the fragrant purple blooms, tucking them into Zephar’s bouquet. “Lilacs, for first love. You need something hopeful and positive! There’s no fighting and winning against evil if you persist with an attitude of doom and gloom.”

“I AM evil, and doom and gloom is a well established way of life.”

“And I’m a woman, sympathetic to the vibes and emotions of other women, so you should listen to what I say.” Melusine seems to think that this settles the debate. Zephar peers at her, takes a deep breath and pauses before asking the million dollar question.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Live with the fact that someone you-- you’re close to, might leave you at any time? Those in Wilson’s line of work aren’t exactly known for their longevity. Or their stable work-life balance.” Zephar knows it’s an impertinent thing to ask or presume, but Melusine’s blush confirms his suspicions. “Not that you aren’t too good for that mannerless wretch, sweeting. And if he isn’t plying you with shiny things and orgasms in large quantities on a regular basis, he’s even more of an idiot than I’ve always suspected, unstable hazardous lifestyle notwithstanding.”

“Oh, Lord Zephar, you should know, better than anyone, that we’re all doomed eventually.” Melusine’s smiling blue eyes hold the patient, eternal wisdom of countless women throughout the ages who have secretly loved and been secretly loved in return. “You came here, and stayed by choice, because you, too, have felt the joy, however ephemeral, of being together with loved ones. Hell is very populated, undoubtedly. But it’s very lonely, isn’t it? And what’s living but a moment’s respite from the loneliness-- the dawn to dusk in the everlasting cycle of life and death? Kane hasn’t made me any promises, because he’s a man of his word, and there’s always the chance that he might be forced to break it. But I treasure our moments together, and I’m grateful.”

It all makes the destructive son-of-a-bitch sound nauseatingly noble and honourable, and Zephar wrinkles his nose, inspects his flowers again. “If you say so. But he’s still a criminally negligent moron if he’s been remiss with the shiny things and orgasms.”

Melusine chuckles, and doesn’t dignify that with a response either affirmative or negative. “Go ahead and call your lady and let her know why we’re here.”

**

A few minutes later, Zephar is seated on the sofa in Dr. Amelia Millbrook’s spotlessly neat living room, watching the lady in question-- who looks somehow even more adorable in a faded university hoodie and jeans than her work clothes-- fuss with his flowers and put them in a blue glass vase. Even with her doors and windows closed, he can pick up the faint scent of the herbs and blossoms that Melusine is putting up in wreaths and bundles-- anise, bay laurel, myrrh, palo santo, rue, sage and vervain-- tied together with ribbons of white samite soaked in Holy Water. The smell makes him faintly nauseous, but he puts on a smile as Amelia finally sits down next to him. 

“So what you and your friend are doing is-- is supposed to help make sure I don’t faint at work again?”

“Something like that, Dr. Darling. It was less of a faint and more or a… a supernatural sleep paralysis. Consider this a preventative treatment. Like taking your vitamins.”

“Sleep paralysis is a condition, possibly genetic, involving the disruption of REM sleep cycles which is occasionally triggered by sleep cycle abnormalities, sleep deprivation and psychological stress. And believe it or not, I actually get a decent amount of sleep for a doctor, so that’s probably not the case. But what do you mean-- ‘supernatural sleep paralysis’?”

There’s the faint sound of nailing on the door-- meteoric iron, the purest and most powerful elemental ward against evil spirits-- and it echoes unpleasantly in Zephar’s head like a hangover headache. He closes his eyes briefly, then reaches for Amelia’s hands blindly, halfway surprised when she doesn’t pull them back. They’re small and cool, a temporary anchor, and that human gesture finally makes a little more sense to him. 

“There’s a whole host of things that I can’t really explain to you, Dr. Darling, which would make no sense by any of your laws of nature and science. And I know it’s asking for a lot to trust in me-- _me_ , of all beings in this world and any other-- but all I can say is that there is more power-- both good and evil-- than you could possibly imagine, present and surrounding you and every other person on this planet. And sometimes, when someone is wronged, or nature is thwarted, or just by accident, bad things happen. Terrible, tragic, vile things, beyond the scope of human comprehension, and pardon the phrase, but I’ll be damned if any of them happen to you.” He feels uncomfortably hot, the stifling way that one suffering from a fever might, without even the respite of sweat. “Well. I’m damned no matter what. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not about to see you suffer for any of it.”

Almost absently, she pulls her fingers away from his grasp, but then he feels them, blessedly cool like a long-awaited rainstorm on a hot day, against his throbbing forehead. “You look a bit pale, Mr. Smith. And-- you’re quite hot. Are you all right?”

“Why thanks, darling.” Zephar hunches down in a vain attempt to disperse the feeling of the walls closing in, his whole system shuddering with the heat, all his senses assaulted with jangling, harsh smells and sounds and tastes and sensations. “Call me Zephar, would you? That’s my name. Use my real name.”

“Zephar.” Even as Melusine sprinkles sea salt around all the window ledges and he’s overtaken by a coughing fit, his name sounds soft, almost beautiful in her voice. “Is there anything I can do for you? You don’t look well at all.”

“Oh, believe it or not, that’s a good thing. It means that all this is working. The real fun will begin when I have to leave through the door,” Zephar mumbles, but manages a wry smile at her alarmed look. “Not to fret, sweet lady. It’s bound to be an unpleasant gauntlet, but certainly things could be worse. You could live on the top floor, for example. Or I could have to drive home after all this. At this rate, Melusine’s going to have to throw me into the van like a gym bag. Hopefully not, though. That would be terribly embarrassing.”

“What can I do?” Amelia murmurs, a troubled frown creasing her brow, her hand still lingering by his face. It’s sheer weakness, which he certainly can’t afford to have, but Zephar sighs and succumbs to the comfort of it, and presses his burning face against her cool palm, and closes his eyes, suddenly sympathetic to those who lost consciousness slowly, trapped inside burning buildings. 

“Talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Who is Dr. Darling, as a person?”

“Well, my name is Amelia. I’m twenty-eight years old, and recently took over the office of Coroner for this county...”

Zephar brushes his lips over the gentle hand hovering by his face, right over a life line that he wished, fiercely and unreasonably, had no end. “It’s nice to meet you, Amelia. I’m Zephar.”

“Zephar Smith. That’s an interesting name.”

“Just Zephar, love. Tell me more about you.”

It’s perhaps minutes, perhaps hours later when a knock sounds at the door, and Melusine’s voice sounds through. “I’m done, Lord Zephar, Dr. Millbrook. Could you open the door?”

Zephar watches from his spot on the couch as Amelia-- Forever Dr. Darling-- stands up from her spot next to him and makes her way to the door, and the comforting coolness of her is replaced with a blast of excruciating heat and acrid smells as she pulls the door open. Try though he might, he can’t control the fit of coughing or the stinging in his eyes. Through slightly blurred vision, he sees the golden cloud of Melusine’s hair, hears her voice as though coming from a great distance. “Are you ready, Lord Zephar?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Zephar pulls himself up, and gives Melusine a grimacing smile. “I should’ve eaten before this excursion, probably. A big, bloody steak, emphasis on the bloody. Or at least a Red Bull. Those things give you wings, no?”

“Not literally, but we can give you a big bloody steak once we get back to my place,” Melusine says soothingly. “You should say goodbye to your lady friend.”

“Yes, of course.” Zephar turns to Amelia, whose sapphire eyes are bright with worry, and gives her a grin that he’s afraid is nowhere near as charmingly insouciant as usual. “Be safe, Dr. Darling. Have sweet-- or perhaps spicy-- dreams tonight. Hopefully of me.”

The first step across the threshold feels like setting foot onto a field of red-hot knives and dirty needles, and he smells the stench of sulphur as his skin blisters underneath his clothing. The second is worse, and it’s all he can do to stop the scream from breaking free from his throat, arms thrown up to protect his face. The trek from Amelia’s door, through the short hallway leading to the main door, down the three steps encompassing the porch, feels like miles of agonizing, burning road. Zephar stumbles outside like a man drunk and be-lamed, and crumples down onto a patch of lawn, which he is uncomfortably aware is withering right under his overheated cheek. “Well, Melusine, you’re damnably good at warding a house. Curse every last grain of salt and drop of Holy Water and bit of leaf.” 

“Zephar-- Zephar!” Soft fingers, brushing against his neck as though looking for a pulse that he could almost imagine would beat faster at that light touch. The scent of lavender laundry sheets and minty chapstick. “You need to go to the hospital. I can get an ambulance up here.”

He catches that hand in both of his, lifts it gently away from his neck, and caresses each individual finger before pulling himself up, willing his lips to smile, his limbs to move. “Go back inside, Dr. Amelia Darling. You’ll be safe, and I’ll be fine.”

Somehow, he makes it by his own power to Melusine’s work van, and collapses into the seat like a sack of potatoes, wincing as the band of the seat belt cuts into his already-abraded flesh. Melusine enters on the opposite side a moment later, and hands him a small bottle of a clear liqueur. “Here. Drink up. It’s not much, but it should help.”

He chugs it without a word, and though it tastes foul and burns as it goes down, it does the trick of dulling the pain a little bit. “Thanks. What was that?”

“Extract of Mandrake in grain alcohol. I had a bit leftover from potion-making. Not recommended for human consumption in that form, but you’re less likely to suffer adverse effects, I daresay. It is an effective anaesthetic, after all.”

“Clever, and true.” Zephar closes his eyes and lets the hallucinogenic plant do its work. “Wake me up before we get back, all right? I don’t trust Wilson not to kill me in my sleep.”


	11. Discussion

“Well, you look like something that the cat dragged in,” Wilson remarks when Melusine’s work van pulls back up at her shop. Zephar, walking with the careful, overly-precise steps of a drunk driver attempting a field sobriety test, flips him off. 

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? At least your woman makes a fecking good set of wards.” Zephar all but collapses into the nearest chair, but jerks back when Jake reaches out a hand to steady him. “I just want a cold shower and a long nap in a dark room. Followed by a big, bloody steak.” The sudden movement dislodges the right sleeve of his shirt, exposing a row of angry welts and burns on his pale skin, which abruptly comes in contact with the wooden armrest. “ _Buggering wankstained son of a twat biscuit, that hurts!_ ”

“I gave him some Extract of Mandrake, but he should really have some decoction of Lingzhi mushrooms and Valerian, and some Spikenard salve for those wounds.” Melusine says quietly. “I’ll heat up the decoction and bring the salve, Lord Zephar. And you can use my spare room-- it has a bath ensuite and dark curtains. Get some rest, and then we can talk about a big, bloody steak.”

Zephar, for once too exhausted to quip anything witty in reply, follows Melusine docilely up to her spare room. Moments after the blonde-haired witch returns to the kitchen, they can hear the sounds of the shower running, and a hint of an unpleasant smell-- like burning plastic-- hits their nostrils. Melusine winces, even as she decants the healing potion into a goblet, stirs in a drop of wildflower honey to mask the taste. “Well. He’s a valiant one, isn’t he? Most would scream and howl and cry, being thus injured. There are probably burns and welts covering him from neck to ankles. He’s keeping up a stoic demeanour, though.”

“He wouldn’t give Wilson the satisfaction, no offense.” Jake angles a quick look at the demon hunter, who is puttering with what looks to be actual components of a flamethrower, in pieces on the table. “And are you sure that you should have that thing indoors, dude?”

“It needs to be kept in good working order so that when I do put it all together, it doesn’t blow everything up,” comes the laconic reply. “Don’t worry-- the actual flammable compounds are kept elsewhere. I wouldn’t endanger Melusine like that.”

Melusine gives him an indulgent sort of smile before bringing her completed potion into the spare room, where the water has finished running. “Drink all of that, Lord Zephar. And use the salve I’ve left for you. It might sting a bit, but it will heal you up faster. Do you want me to have Jake help you?”

“Absolutely not.” Both Jake and Zephar reply in almost-comical unison. Melusine chuckles, and rejoins Jake and Wilson in the kitchen. 

“The potion will put him to sleep for a while, which he badly needs in order to heal properly, and the salve will close up the worst of the burns as he does. What have you two found out about the _Draugr_ , while we were gone?”

“The likeliest candidate is a woman by the name of Beata Jónsdóttir, who’d been heavily involved in a non-profit organization that had gotten shut down about five years ago. Ms. Jónsdóttir had taken over the program twenty years ago, dedicated her life to it, and the funding had been cut off around the same time that the senator had shifted funding for a lot of similar programs. It had been a church-based program, and I do believe that he’d been… less than charitable in regards to the work that had been done there. There’d been a few interviews with the media in which he’d characterized her organization as a cult. She’d died from complications arising after a bout of pneumonia after staging a long protest last winter, and the senator had made sort of a laughingstock out of her in a subsequent interview. Her religious beliefs did not permit cremation. Anyway, I still need to talk to Ms. Huntington about her father. But I think that’s a conversation best done in person. I’ve left her a message.” Jake rubs his fingers over his forehead. “She’s not going to take it well.”

“No, probably not, but she’ll forgive you, nonetheless. We women are tougher than you think,” Melusine smiles gently, and shares a wry look with Kane that probably holds a world of meaning that he has no business asking over. “That it matters to you whether she takes it well or not will not go unnoticed, I daresay.”

Jake doesn’t reply, because it should not matter what Raeanne Huntington thinks of this whole horrific affair. Asking her permission to exhume the senator’s body is a mere formality, and he doesn’t owe her an explanation beyond some simple line about further investigations on behalf of the Coroner’s office, which would even be somewhat true. But that brave, not-quite-invincible, not-quite-emotionless woman deserves more than that, even if the truth would hurt her. To tell her that her father, who’d been cruel and callous in life, had in death turned into a true monster out to destroy those left behind might break her already-fragile heart. It was a necessary evil, of course, but he wished to Hell that there was some other way.

Perhaps some of his unhappiness shows on his face, because Wilson gives him a clap on the shoulder that jolts him forward. “Find out what flowers she likes and buy them in great quantities. Groveling is probably the best course of action when you know that something you’re going to have to do is not going to go over well.”

Jake’s gaze falls on a bouquet of cream-coloured dahlias on the windowsill, and then onto the arrangement of amber tiger lilies on the kitchen table. A row of small terra-cotta pots bearing sturdy golden pansies stand sentinel by the sitting room window. “I see. You must piss Melusine off in some way, shape or form every damned day.”

“I have a lot of patience,” Melusine interjects with a light laugh even as Wilson sputters. “Why don’t you and your friend stay for dinner, Detective? I did promise him a big, bloody steak after he wakes up.”


	12. A Solemn Promise

There was a message on his voicemail from Raeanne Huntington stating that she’d come by after she got off work, if that was all right with him, so Jake finds himself waiting at the precinct that afternoon. The place is quiet-- it’s shift change and the police officers shuffle in and out without much ceremony as the shadows lengthen outside and the night begins to fall. Zephar is not around that day-- after a slightly awkward dinner at Melusine’s where he’d indeed devoured the entirety of a steak that might have touched a hot skillet for all of three seconds on each side, threshing the bloody meat with his sharp teeth, he’d gone home, still weakened and limping ever-so-slightly, and slept like a man drained by a long illness. He had not yet emerged from his rooms at the time that Jake had left for work. 

Jake had dedicated his day to learning everything he could about the life and death of Beata Jónsdóttir, and the more he’d dug into her records, the more he was convinced that she was indeed the restless soul who’d been twisted into this villainous supernatural killer by her circumstances and the machinations of the senator. A visit to the cemetery where her body was known to have been interred reveals a patch of withered grass over her grave-- a sign of unnatural disturbance. He’d been warned by Wilson not to touch or even set foot on that area-- only to make note of it. There would be another, similar area over the grave of the senator.

“Ms. Huntington is here to see you, Langdon.” One of the cadets comes in, escorting Raeanne Huntington to his desk. Jake stands, holds out a hand for her. She’s wearing another one of those prim little skirt suits for work, a bright red this time, and her hair shines like black lacquer against the scarlet wool. The powerful colour catches the eye, but also emphasizes the porcelain pallor of her complexion, the delicacy of her features. Her lips are painted red to match the suit, but there are dark shadows under her eyes that no amount of cosmetics can conceal.

“Detective. Have you any news on the case? Well, you must. I doubt you’d have called me in, otherwise.”

Her hand is cold in his, and he leads her to one of the interrogation rooms, so that they can converse in private. “I have something to tell you, and something to ask you. And I’m afraid that you will not believe me.”

Her back is pressed against the closed door of the room, and she lifts her eyes up to his face with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean?”

“Do you believe in such things as an afterlife? Heaven, Hell, that sort of thing? Good and evil and souls receiving their just dues?”

“I went to Catholic school as a girl, but I wouldn’t say I’m very religious. And people don’t always get their justice-- their deserved good or bad endings. That much I do know to be true. Call me a cynic, but bad things happen too often to good people, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.” Raeanne’s lips curve in a wry smile even as she cocks her head to the side. “But what does that have to do with my father’s death?”

“Your father… we have a lead on the individual who killed him, but it’s nothing that I can explain in a way to make you believe me. And for the safety of everyone, we’re going to have to exhume him, do a few… procedures. I need your permission for that. What’s going to happen to him is probably not dignified, or easy to contemplate.” He isn’t making any sense, and the droop of those red lips as her smile fades echoes the weary unhappiness in his voice. “He’s not resting in peace, and others are still going to die if we--- if we don’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

If Raeanne notices that he carefully avoided terming her father’s killer as a “person”, she doesn’t say anything, but he sees a few tears beading the lush black fringes of her eyelashes as her next breath shudders out of her, only to be resolutely blinked away. “I should ask you to explain yourself, Detective.”

“I would make this easier for you if I could,” Jake says honestly, and belatedly notices that her hand is still clasped in his. Absently, he runs his thumb over the back of her hand, gives it a soft squeeze. “The world is not all it seems, and that’s something I had to learn myself, years ago-- open myself up to the possibility that some things defy explanation or logic. It’s not easy knowledge to have, all of the time.”

“And you’d not burden me with it if you don’t have to,” Raeanne murmurs, finally raising her eyes back up to his face. “I’m not used to dealing with gentlemen, I’m afraid. In my line of work, and amongst the acquaintances and associates of my father, they tend more towards being scum of the earth. I’m not sure if I should be relieved or offended that you’d want to spare me.”

Jake thinks of the pallid, unconscious figure of Dr. Millbrook, passed out on the floor of her own lab. Of Zephar, curled up in a dark room licking his wounds-- wounds willingly undertaken to ensure the safety of a woman he loved and almost lost. Of the monster that her father had truly become, worse still in death than even in life-- the ever-widening circle of destruction caused by a law that had been signed into place some years ago for nothing more than profit. “It would break your heart, Raeanne. And I’m the one who can’t bear that burden.”

He had never called her by her name before. It’s certainly a breach of professional conduct, but all the formalities seem very far away indeed. Even in the cramped, ugly quarters of a police station interrogation room, under the harsh industrial lights and behind a two-way mirror, the sort of space where any vestiges of hope in a human soul shrivels up and dies, it feels almost intimate. He barely knows her, and she barely knows him, and they’re standing too close together, her piercing gaze fixed upon his as she struggles to process what he must mean by this. Finally, she breaks the silence, though she doesn’t move her hand away from his. “It’s all for a good reason, of course. And whatever is about to come is dangerous and complicated. It must be, to have claimed two lives so quickly.”

“It’s definitely dangerous. Your father made the wrong enemy, so to speak. And if this isn’t stopped for good, more people will die. I have to do everything I can to make sure that that doesn’t happen.” All of the sudden, he feels the weight of the last few days bearing down on him, stunning and almost unbearable, and he lets his shoulders slump, his head droop for an instant. “I know I’m asking for a lot. Unquestioning trust is not something you’re used to giving, and for good reason.”

“I don’t think I have a choice right now,” Raeanne says in a quiet voice. She lifts her free hand up in a movement both imperious and feminine, cupping his chin between thumb and forefinger so that she can tilt his face up. “You’re going to be doing more than just some more forensic tests on my father’s body, I take it. And whatever you’re up against-- whoever did this-- is not going to stop anytime soon unless you make them. So go ahead and do what you must. You have my permission.”

“Thank you. I can’t reveal too much of what the takedown of the killer will entail-- the details are still being ironed out, so to speak. But I’ll do what needs to be done to ensure that this ends as well as it can for everyone, and that there’s a minimal amount of damage done to any more lives.”

“I’m sure you will.” Her breath fans over his mouth, and then her lips are there, pressed against his own even as the hand at his chin slides back to his nape, fingertips brushing against his hair. Jake freezes for all of three seconds before instinct-- primal and improper-- takes hold, and he uses the grip that he still has on her other hand to pull her in closer, even as his free hand anchors at the small of her back. She tilts her head, standing on tiptoe to get a better angle, and he tastes cherry lip gloss and trepidation and courage and an odd sort of comfort in equal measure on her tongue as her lips soften and part underneath his. She pulls back to breathe, though her hand still lingers by his face, and the air exhales out between her lips in a concussive breath. The red lipstick is hopelessly smudged, and Jake knows it’s likely all over his own mouth, but that’s the least of his worries.

“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” Raeanne mutters, almost too quietly to hear, then bravely looks up into his eyes again. “Hell, just stay safe with what you’re about to do, all right?”

He feels his own breath escape in a low chuckle, and feels a wave of sudden affection for this woman, who had yet to stop surprising him. “I’ll try my damnedest.”

“You’d better. Someday, when this case is wrapped up, you owe me a full explanation for everything, you know.”

Jake, with the careful, precise movements of someone who had perhaps drawn too close to a wildfire, mesmerized by its glow, takes the necessary, wrenching step back, and lets go of her hand. He shouldn’t have kissed her back, certainly, and the case still loomed over both their heads like a forbidding black cloud. “I promise that when that time comes, you’ll be the first to know.”


	13. A Bromantic Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic art featured in this chapter is the work of [MessySketchPad](https://twitter.com/messysketchpad). Please check out her twitter and tumblr (of that name) for more of her art!!

Zephar is awake and at home when Jake returns, curled up on the couch in a living room that looks like the aftermath of a particularly bad college boy type gathering. On the coffee table are remnants of possibly the most disgusting and unhealthy combination of foods and drinks that Jake has ever seen-- an empty bag of Hot Cheetos, a handful of Twinkies wraps, and the cardboard carton of a box of pizza rolls sit next to a half-empty two-liter of Orange Fanta and a styrofoam cup that used to contain ramen noodles. The demon is plowing his way through what looks like a whole bag of M&Ms dumped into a half-gallon carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream as he fascinatedly watches-- “Are you seriously watching RIVERDALE?!”

“The bird who plays Veronica is hot. And the plotlines are so ridiculous that it doesn’t require any thinking on my part. I have been ill. It only made sense to take things easy today, you know.”

“And your way of ‘taking it easy’ involves junk food and trashy television? I mean, no judgement, but it’s really kind of fourteen-year-old-girl-going-through-PMS of you.”

“Fourteen-year-old girls going through PMS are terrifying, I’ll have you know. Highly wrathful. Could teach lessons to the Harpies when they’re in top form.” Zephar swallows another gigantic mouthful of ice cream, then turns his attention to Jake, a leer almost immediately crossing his lips. “Well, well. What a lovely shade of red you’re wearing, Jakey-pooh. Mac’s Ruby Woo is a classic. What flawless taste. Your application leaves a little to be desired, however.”

 _God-fucking-damnit_. There were still remnants of Raeanne’s lipstick by his mouth. “That’s none of your business. Anyway, are you feeling better?”

“I shall live to sin and wreak havoc another day. Wilson’s lady knows her craft, that’s for certain, and is far too talented and pretty for the likes of that bloodthirsty troglodyte, but I daresay that the _Draugr_ will be leaving Dr. Darling alone for a night or two, at least. It won’t last, of course. And _Draugar_ are known to be able to move through walls. But she’ll sleep well tonight.”

“You know, much as the idea of you attempting to make a move on our Coroner has horrified me in the past, maybe you should ask her out to dinner once this is all done and over with. Get to know her better and spend some time in her company. It would do you good, I think.”

If Zephar seemed to be surprised by this change of heart, he didn’t say so, choosing instead to sigh and turn back to his ice cream. “She has no use for the likes of me, Jake. Even I can recognize pure virtuousness when I see it, rare and foreign as the manifestation might be in this wicked, wicked world.” He looks up, green eyes glistening with something unidentifiable and bright and despairing all at once. “She deserves a happily ever after, you know. The nauseating sort featuring matching wedding bands and monogrammed bathrobes and a man who gets up early to make her coffee just the way she likes it, and children whom she’ll earnestly teach their numbers and letters and how to be good and kind, and early Christmas mornings with hot chocolate and late Halloween nights with apple cider. She’ll live and die too soon and go to Heaven where she belongs. I have no place in any of that.”

“But you’ll have a few days, or months, or perhaps even years. We don’t stop taking chances just because they might end badly, or because happiness might not last forever. Nothing lasts forever for us, Zeph. We know that. And we’re okay with knowing it, and trying to do what makes us happy, anyway.” Jake fetches a roll of paper towels from the kitchen, and wipes off the lipstick on his face before reaching for a mostly-untouched bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. “She’s a good woman. You are definitely far too much of a morally bankrupt sleazebag to deserve her, of course. But if you find a way to make her happy, then by all means you have a right to spend as much time with her as you’re both inclined. Now… can we please change the channel and watch something else? There’s a Yankees game on ESPN.”

Zephar glares at him and snatches the bag of chips over to take out a hefty handful. “Why would anyone want to trade busty coeds and far-fetched plotlines for chubby baseball players with ugly black grease marks on their faces? You can just go… find other stuff to do if you’re not inclined.”

Jake shakes his head, and grabs a handful of chips for himself. “Nah. I’ll keep you company for a while.” He had exactly zero interest in spending an evening bingeing an almost comically bad and melodramatic TV show, but Zephar could use a friend.

It’s a simple choice, really.


	14. Showdown

“ _Draugar_ do not resemble typical cadavers, so don’t be scared of what he looks like when the coffin is opened.” Kane Wilson, for a man who looks like the graphic novel version of a member of the Hell’s Angels plus more shiny sharp objects, manages a snotty professor type voice pretty damn well as he and Jake step back to let the mechanical crane lift the coffin out of the ground. Raeanne Huntington is not in attendance, and neither is the Coroner’s van, and unlike the usual criminal investigation-related disinterment of remains, it’s almost full dark outside. The coffin is dropped onto the ground, and at Jake’s signal, the crane operator beats a hasty retreat rather than staying around to watch the show and put the dead back down into the grave. The ropes are there holding the casket in place, and Kane draws his sword. “Are you ready?”

“Will a gun stop that thing if it jumps out and tries to eat my face?” Jake asks dryly. He has his gun drawn and cocked, but he’s fairly sure that it would be about as useful as a bubble wand against the undead politician. 

“No, but you have a bit of cold iron on you in that gris-gris, so it might pause for about three seconds before actually eating your face, so maybe you’d have the time to run.”

“Cool. Good to know that a rusty nail can do more damage than a bullet. What else should I do in order to not get my face eaten, just out of curiosity?”

“Hmm… how are you at, say, parkour?”

Jake gives the demon hunter a look almost dirty enough to start a dumpster fire. “We are in a graveyard. Not exactly lots of structures to provide cover or whatever, outside of mausoleums and the like, and I may not be versed in all this hoodoo Satanic shit, but I’ve watched a horror movie or two in my time so I think I’d have to take my chances in trying to escape the damned thing while out here in the open. And no, parkour wasn’t exactly covered as a necessary topic in the training at the police academy. We had training in how to deal with a shooter. Does that count?”

“The shooter in question can go through walls if necessary. Sorry.”

“Well, then, unless you manage to do whatever it is that you do when not shacking up with Melusine, I guess I’m fucked,” Jake replies cheerfully. “But such is my life. Go ahead then, open it up.”

The blade of Kane’s katana gleams bright silver in the moonlight, and with a whistle of wind, the steel slices through the ropes. The coffin sits now, ominously still on the ground, and Kane sheathes the sword, spares the quickest glance for Jake before picking up his crossbow. “You might want to back up. They get really ornery if their tombs are disturbed.”

“Oh. And you didn’t think to mention this _before_ we embarked on this whole mission to exhume him?!”

“He’ll be pissed off, but it’s better to draw him out and finish him off then wait for him to turn a bunch of other people into more of them, you know?” The demon hunter nocks an arrow onto his crossbow, then with a deadly accuracy that has Jake’s eyes widening, shoots the bolt directly into the seam where the lid meets the casket. The arrowhead, acting like a wedge, pops the coffin open, and the figure lying inside certainly looks nothing like any corpse that Jake had ever seen in all his years working Homicide.

The skin of the senator is a ghastly bruise-tinged blue, drawn tight over his skeletal remains, and the suit that he’d been buried in shows signs of dirt and grime that don’t belong on a body buried and resting in peace, but most horrifying of all is the dark, congealed maroon of bloodstains pooled on the collar and chest of his white shirt, caked into the skin by his mouth. “He might have been the one to kill Sherwood, actually. Once we’ve finished the process, you should be able to swab that blood and send it off to a lab to be sure.” Kane tells Jake, whose mouth is agape in horror.

“Yeah, sure. Let me just go stick my hand by the freaking zombie’s freaking mouth. I think… _NO. Hell no_. And what does the process entail, dare I ask?”

“Well…” Before Kane could even reply, Jake watches as the dead man’s eyes fly open, glowing eerie, awful white against the bluish skin, with pinpoint red pupils. It rises like a wraith and its mouth opens wide, revealing teeth that gleam, shark-like, even as it heads straight for the demon hunter, who somehow managed to switch from crossbow to katana once again without Jake noticing. “You stop it from killing you, first.”

The blade of that mighty sword takes off the dead man’s arm at the elbow in one swing, but the limb simply falls to the ground without so much as a drop of blood, and the creature doesn’t so much as pause as it continues forward towards Kane. The latter sidesteps and ducks out of the way of those awful teeth, and Jake takes the opportunity to empty the full clip of his service firearm into the body. That doesn’t stop it, either. The smell of gunpowder fills the air, but the monster continues forward, and now it’s Jake’s turn to jump back, even as Kane returns with another wide, arcing slash of blade.

“ _How the hell are you supposed to kill that thing if it’s not only already dead but no weapons can stop it?!_ ” Jake holsters his useless gun and starts backing up, watching with combined terror and fascination as Kane swings the sword at the monster with the panache of someone out of a martial arts period drama, vaulting over headstones and flower arrangements and the like. It’s almost as though he’s attempting to lead the monster away from its original grave and into a relatively open area which, unfortunately, is close to where Jake had chosen to beat his hasty retreat. 

“Langdon! Get my flamethrower ready!” Kane yells over his shoulder, narrowly avoiding the creature as it springs at him. Jake’s eyes bug out and he stares askance at the now-assembled flamethrower slung over the Harley, then yelps and jumps clear over the bike as the creature comes his way.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! You want ME to TORCH that thing?! _That’s your plan?!_ ”

“I gotta remove all four limbs and decapitate him first! Get the flamethrower but give me some room! We need to lure him to an open area big enough for the range of an XM42 without causing extensive property damage or an actual fire.”

Jake has no earthly idea how Kane manages it, but the demon hunter does indeed lure the creature towards the direction of an empty parking area, away from any trees, all while still attacking with the sword. A foot goes flying, then the rest of the already-amputated arm, and yet the monster presses on, jaws snapping. Another swing of the blade catches it in the abdomen, and he can hear the freakish metal-on-metal click of the steel blade hitting lodged bullets on its way down. And yet the _Draugr_ still moves forward, and the remaining one of its desiccated hands latches onto Kane’s jacket lapel. 

“Oh get off me, I’m NOT buying a new coat! This one’s got sentimental value,” Kane snaps as though talking to an ill-behaved underling. With the monster too close for the sword now, he drops it, and immediately pulls out a Tibetan dagger with an ox-horn sheath, and with a flash of blade, takes that hand off at the wrist, then uses what looks to be a Judo throw to toss the monster onto the ground. That moment is enough for him to regain the proper distance to use his sword, and he immediately retrieves it, holding the katana in one hand and dagger in the other as he faces off with the injured-but-still-moving _Draugr_. 

It’s an indeterminate amount of time later that Kane manages to take off the last leg, and then, with a flourish, cuts off its head. Finally, the mangled body goes still, and in a very businesslike way, Kane retraces his steps from the original grave to the middle of the deserted parking lot, picking up all the discarded and dismembered body parts with a coolness which has Jake shuddering. That done, he nods at Jake, who is gingerly holding onto the flamethrower. “All right. Now turn her on and let her fly.”

A volley of fire which could easily span the length of a swimming pool spews out, torching the pile of undead limbs, and in the glow of the flames, Kane meets Jake’s eyes. “All right. So once this burns all to ash, it needs to get thrown into the ocean. Melusine loaned me a container to put it in, so you don’t have to worry about the transport. We’re going to shut that coffin with iron, then douse the gravesite with Holy Water, and then we’re done with him.”

“Right.” Even though the demon hunter had certainly done most of the work, Jake feels drained by the experience. “So we should be done soon, right? Cool.”

“What do you mean, done soon?” A smirk that Jake definitely doesn’t like crosses Kane’s mouth. “We have to repeat the whole process with Beata Jónsdóttir.”

“ _Oh, fuck me_.”

“No thanks. Let’s get a move on.”


	15. Aftermath

The sun is rising in the distance, and in an otherwise-silent cemetery, two exhausted men sit on a bench by a deserted parking lot which shows a few char marks. Kane, bearing a few new scratches on his face from the undead Beata Jónsdóttir’s nails, uncaps a silver flask and takes a healthy swig, offering it to Jake, who sniffs it suspiciously.

“It smells like shit. What is that?”

“Ginseng tea with a drop of Ephedra extract. Melusine brewed it.”

“Isn’t Ephedra illegal? I’m not Narcotics, but that name’s ringing a bell for the wrong reasons.”

“Sure, if it’s prepared a certain way and you were an Olympic athlete. Neither happens to be the case here, no offense. It’s a restorative of energy so we can get out of here and back home in one piece.”

“And, what, a Five Hour Energy shot’s not good enough for you?” Jake grouses, but takes a swig. It tastes just as foul as it smells, and yet serves the purpose of almost-immediately getting rid of the shaky feeling coming from the adrenaline drain and lack of sleep. He hands the vile concoction back to Kane, then picks up the iron and hematite box of ashes. “So these have to get dumped into the ocean, you say? We’re not a coastal state. What do you propose we do for that?”

“I’ll handle it.” Kane sprinkles Holy Water from a vial in his pocket into the ashes, then shuts the box again. “I’ll have to leave town around midday to make it to the coast by sundown, which means that we should probably head back. Melusine’s going to be worried if we’re gone for much longer, and I shouldn’t just skip town without saying anything anyway.”

“Right. She might make you sleep on the couch and we can’t have that, now can we?” Jake drawls, then holds up a placating hand when Kane scowls. “I mean, she has a cat. If you’re sleeping out in the open it might shed all over you. Okay, okay, stop mean-mugging me like you’re about to use that now-very-dirty-and-undead-tainted sword on me. Are we meeting up at Melusine’s, then?”

Kane gives him a terse answer to the affirmative, and Jake gets into his car. Somehow, he loses the demon hunter’s motorcycle out of his sights en route, but Kane still manages to get there before he does. When he arrives at Melusine’s, the door’s been left ajar for him. 

There’s a new bouquet of flowers-- white daisies with golden centers-- sitting in an oversized coffee mug on an end table. The cat is placidly snoozing on a sunny spot by the window. Jake opens his mouth to announce his arrival, then pauses when he spots Kane and Melusine together in what must be her bedroom. The demon hunter is seated on the bed, his lady perched on his lap as she dabs a white cloth against the cuts on his face. Melusine’s free hand lands quite naturally on Kane’s shoulder, as his own do on her hips. Kane says something too low to hear, and his words bring a smile to the blonde’s lovely face. Melusine leans in, the silken locks of her hair brushing against Kane’s face, and whispers something in response into his ear. Kane chuckles, low and soft, and Jake turns away abruptly, unwilling to intrude any further upon their private moment. Melusine, he reflects, really must have the patience of a saint to wait up most of the night for them to return in one piece, only to send Kane off again in a few hours. No wonder the guy had made a pit stop for flowers. He should have gotten a bigger bouquet.

He takes a seat on the couch, feeling awkward and out of place, but it’s only a few minutes later that the two of them join him. Kane’s cool and collected and Melusine is gracious and charming, and all that is much as usual, so he decides against embarrassing either of them by mentioning the scene that he’d witnessed. “Well, it’s definitely been an interesting evening,” he says to the witch with a faint smile. “Would you believe that we actually got to use a good number of Wilson’s collection, including the flamethrower? Outside of the fact that that thing is illegal as shit, it was sort of fun.”

“I’m sure,” Melusine swallows a giggle, then gives Kane a sidelong glance. “I’d make you two something for breakfast, but I think sleep is more important than food right now, for both of you. Do you think you can make it home in one piece, Detective?”

“Yeah, I’ve had longer stakeouts. I’m more concerned about how to explain this one to the brass.” And Raeanne, of course. A thought even more daunting than explaining it to his lieutenant, or the press. “I’ll figure something out, I guess. Thank you both for the assist, by the way.”

“No problem,” Melusine smiles gently, then hands him a travel mug redolent of fresh coffee. “I will consecrate the ground around the gravesites later with salt and sage. And I am sure we’ll meet again. But for now, Detective, go home. Blessed be.”

**

Jake nods in thanks for the coffee, and takes his leave. The coffee is smooth and hot with a hint of caramel, infinitely better tasting than the concoction in Kane’s flask, and he makes it back to his apartment a short time later. Zephar is awake, and opens the door a split second before he can unlock it with his key. Perhaps the junk food and bad television binge had worked its magic, because the demon looks alert and in a much better physical state than before. “You’re alive. I suppose Wilson is, too. Energy drink? You sort of look like shit.”

Jake looks askance at the can of Monster Energy Drink. “Maybe I should’ve had that before this whole, I dunno, creepy zombie-killing midnight adventure. But no, thanks. I just had some coffee, and a sip of some gross ginseng drink. That on top of everything else might give me a heart attack. And yes, Wilson’s alive. I sort of see why he goes around carrying twenty-seven or so weapons of all shapes and sizes on his person every damn day now. He dismembered both the _Draugar_ , decapitated them, and burned them to ash, to be scattered into the ocean.”

Zephar shudders. “And I’m sure he greatly enjoyed doing so, the great brute.” Whatever vestiges of sympathy he might have had for his fellow demonic creatures is quickly quashed, however, and he squares his shoulders. “Well. At least Dr. Darling will be safe. I suppose we should get you something to eat, since you’re too tired to appreciate the supreme irony of a Monster Energy Drink at this moment. Pop tart, precious?”

“It’s less of an ‘I don’t appreciate the irony’ and more of an ‘I would prefer not to hear my own pulse echoing in my ears’, but sure, I’ll take a pop tart.” Jake sits down at the kitchen table, which to his pleasant surprise is not completely covered in junk food remnants, and chows down on artificial strawberry flavoured pastry. “And yeah, Amelia should be safe. She called me yesterday, by the way. To ask if you were all right. You alarmed her a little when Melusine was warding her home and you all but passed out on her. I told her you were fine, and would call her back.”

If Zephar looks at all startled by the news, he hides it well, even though he chugs down a good half a can of the energy drink that Jake had refused before he replies. “I’m not going to pursue her for the purposes of satiating my sexual desires, you know.”

“That’s a surprise, considering I’ve been trying to get you to stop calling her ‘Hot Coroner Lady’ for months.” Jake is honestly too tired to have this conversation right now, but hoped that Melusine’s coffee would keep him alert enough to manage it, nonetheless. “I mean, good that you don’t see her as a sex object because she’s a smart lady who deserves better, but ultimately, you’re both consenting adults, so…”

“I’m Zephar the Lustful, 16th Spirit Duke of the Infernal Regions, and those whom I lie with are turned barren and ruined for all other lovers by the experience. I can’t say that I care overmuch as a rule-- none of my partners in the past have been what we can call the parenting type-- but I can’t do that to her, you see. She’d have no say in it, and that makes it less of the consenting adult thing than what you think it would be.” A sardonic, fatalistic smile crosses Zephar’s lips. “Dr. Darling deserves a half-a-dozen little miniature darlings if she wants them, even if I’d like to flay the man who’d give them to her alive.”

No, definitely not enough caffeine or energy for this conversation, but Jake chews the rest of his pop tart and makes a manful attempt, anyway. “Well, Zeph, there’s a happy medium between being strangers and sleeping together, you know. You could still call her. As a courteous friendly thing to do. I mean, we’ve managed to live together for the last several years without getting into bed with each other. It is possible for you to be her friend, too.” 

Zephar looks as though that idea had honestly never occurred to him before. “The good doctor has no use for a friend like me.”

“Oh, of course not, but the point of being friends with someone isn’t how useful you are to them. If anything, she’d be more of use to you than the other way around. You take so much looking after, and I have enough shit to do. I still have to figure out how to close this case and explain everything to the brass and the press-- let alone Raeanne-- because telling everyone that a crazy Scandinavian zombie lady killed the senator and turned him into a crazy zombie dude is just not going to go over well.”

If it weren’t for the fact that Jake is more or less dead on his feet, he could have sworn a calculating look passed through his demon friend’s eyes, a flicker-flare of red in the green like ruby in zoisite, but it passes before he can be sure. “I’m going to take a nap. Will you behave for the next few hours if left to your own devices?”

Zephar affects a look of injured hauteur. “I have been almost a paragon of virtue for a whole twelve hours-- no mischief, no temptations, no shenanigans resulting in bodily injury or property damage, no sex, drugs and/or rock and roll… I can barely stand myself right now, as a matter of fact, and you’re still not satisfied? What do I have to do, juggle flaming batons while singing ‘Barbie Girl’? I say, Jakey-pooh, if you were any harder to please, you’d be a middle-aged suburban housewife with bad highlights driving a late-model SUV placing an order at a busy Starbucks.”

“Good night, Zephar. Don’t be bad for the next three hours and I’ll pick up Chinese takeout for dinner. Kung Pao chicken, extra spicy.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Ugh. Please never call me that again. Like, ever.”


	16. Case Closed

Jake is woken up by the sound of his cell phone ringing, and it’s his lieutenant on the other line. 

“Langdon.”

“You wouldn’t believe this,” Lieutenant Darien Shields has a voice suitable for newscasting-- well-modulated and precise, almost always scrupulously polite no matter what type of heinous crime or bureaucratic bullshit he might have to deal with at any given moment. It had taken Jake a few months to listen for the subtle inflections in the man’s voice, and right at the moment, there’s a faint but unmistakable note of surprise. “The boys were conducting a routine traffic stop along the intersection of Fourth and Washington. Brand new souped up Ferrari going ten over, making an illegal turn. Driver’s demeanour got them suspicious, and when he was digging for his license and registration, they saw what looked like another driver’s license in his wallet. Got the guy out of the car, searched it, and what do you know but the other ID belongs to Trevor Huntington. Car’s less than a week old. Price tag’s about what a hit would cost, I’d say. He’s up in holding, waiting for you.”

“I… I’ll be there.” Jake is dimly aware that Zephar had sidled up to the room during the middle of the call, watching him beadily. He hangs up, and frowns at the demon. “What did you do?”

Zephar shrugs and inspects his nails. “Made things easy for you, like you asked. Let’s just say I called in a few favours to the right-- well, they’re not people, exactly-- but you get what I mean. The ‘hit man’ will confess, once you get there, that he was paid by Kade Sherwood to off the senator, and then killed Sherwood when the latter reneged on his agreement. He will know details of the crime that have not been publicised. As a matter of fact, his fingerprints will match one found at the scene. He will plead guilty and go to prison and it will all be tidily wrapped up, with no hint of crazy zombie attacks. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Jake blinked at the utter sangfroid with which the demon just relayed this outrageous and yet plausible narrative. “And… and how, dare I ask, did you manage to… accomplish this?”

“Dretch. Self-serving but relatively obedient type of creature. He’ll do some decades in prison. But the alternative is an eternity in Hell, so he’s pretty excited. Tickled pink at the idea of getting shanked as opposed to getting thrown into rivers of boiling blood and shot by arrows and slogging through swamps of excrement and so on. It will be like a vacation to him.”

Jake can do nothing but shake his head. 

**

It’s perhaps a week later, after the case has officially been closed and the media furor had started to die down that a uniformed officer leads a slim figure in a burgundy dress into the bullpen. “Someone here to see you, Langdon.” 

“Raeanne-- Ms. Huntington.” Jake had not spoken to her aside from brief snatches on the phone, since the time he’d asked her permission to exhume her father’s body. The dretch that Zephar had summoned had played the role of hitman flawlessly, all soulless black eyes and a sharp-toothed smile and clipped but concise answers. He had yet to see her in person, explain the deception that had been necessary, and was both anticipating and dreading this very moment. She looks a lot more peaceful, at the very least, and a faint smile crosses those soft, lush lips when she sees him. 

“I didn’t want to come by while you guys were still busy wrapping things up. I figured it would be best to leave you to your own devices and not get in the way. But now… here I am.”

“Let’s find somewhere quiet to talk, then.”

The same interrogation room is vacant, and it looks exactly as it had all the previous times they’d been in there-- harsh lighting and sterile table and uncomfortable chairs. But the woman is different-- there’s something softer about her eyes and mouth, and she no longer carries herself like something hard but brittle on the verge of cracking. Strangely, this warmer, more human version of her makes him more nervous than the stunning but cynical femme fatale he’d taken her for upon their first meeting, and he coughs to clear his suddenly-dry throat. But before he can stumble his way through that difficult explanation as he’d promised her, she puts a hand on his arm, and speaks first.

“The case is closed, and in a way that does minimal damage to those left behind.” Her violet eyes bore into his blue ones, but he makes himself hold that fiery gaze. “No one else will be in danger. You’re safe, too.”

“Yes.” He takes a deep breath, and rests his hand over hers. “I know I owe you an explanation, still.”

“You do,” she replies evenly, before a small smile quirks across those perfect lips. “And, from the hints you’d given last time, it’s something complicated and illogical and difficult to understand or believe, right?”

“Let’s just say that he had a bad start to the afterlife due to some decisions that he’d made while he was alive,” Jake says slowly, and this time, it’s his turn to tilt her face up with a brush of his fingers. “His ashes are scattered over the Atlantic Ocean, from a very pretty seaside resort town that’s mostly cozy B&B’s and little mom-and-pop shops, a scattering of beach cottages and summer homes. We’ve replanted the grass over his gravesite, and put down new flowers. He’s at peace now.”

Indeed, Kane Wilson had sent him photos from the picturesque Maryland town where he’d dropped the ashes of both Draugar into the ocean, a day after the showdown in the cemetery, and it had looked like something out of a postcard. Jake had smiled and wondered just how badly the demon hunter, with his burly motorcycle and ubiquitous arsenal of weaponry, had stood out amidst his quaint and quiet surroundings. Hopefully he’d at least had the sense to stow the flamethrower before wandering anywhere indoors. And the sense to buy Melusine something cutesy while he was there. 

“That’s good enough for me, for now.” Raeanne murmurs, and wraps her fingers lightly around his, scoots in just a little bit closer as her eyes twinkle like star amethysts. “Tell me, Detective, do these types of fantastical events and situations happen frequently around you?”

“Sometimes,” Jake says with bald honesty. She’s close enough that he can count her individual lashes, taste her breath against his lips. “Do you mind?”

“No.” Those dark eyelashes flutter shut for a moment as her lips part with an exhale. “I have a tendency to sulk when things don’t go my way, and I’m slow to forgive when someone pisses me off. I’m not good at sugarcoating unpleasant news to spare someone’s feelings. And this is not at all appropriate for either of us. Do you mind?”

“Not really.” This time, he meets her halfway, and it’s an easier, more hopeful kiss this time. There’s no cloud of her father’s death hanging over either of their heads, and she sighs against his mouth as his fingers tangle in the thick, silky hair at the nape of her slender neck and her hands clutch at his shoulders. She leans her cheek against his jaw for a moment-- a gentle press of smooth skin against stubble-- when they part for air. “I guess we’ll both see where this takes us, hmm, Detective?”

He nods, then recovers enough of his equanimity to smooth her hair back behind her ear. “Well, for one, the case is closed. You should probably call me Jake.”

**

A while later, after Raeanne had taken her leave after making tentative plans to join him for dinner the upcoming Saturday, Jake’s filling out some paperwork on a case of vehicular manslaughter-- drunk driver going the wrong way on a one-way street getting into a head-on collision-- when a very familiar whine of “Why are you still here? I’m hungry and BORED!” sounds from the area in front of his desk. Zephar, of course, deceptively indolent in a black silk suit accented with crimson trim. The get-up should have made the demon look like a bullfighter or a figure skater, but as usual, he somehow pulls it off as he stands there, tapping his feet impatiently, arms crossed. 

“I’m almost done, Zephar. Maybe ten more minutes. Where have you been all day?”

“Oh, here and there. Dr. Darling is busy cutting up your stiff, though I fail to see the reasoning. Fairly obvious that the poor fool died from being hit by a truck going fifteen over. I brought her a sandwich, since she seems damnably fond of them, but she’d not be persuaded to take off until she was finished.”

“I’m sure she appreciates it.” The demon had, at Jake’s suggestion, struck up something of a friendship with the Coroner, and on occasion, they’d spend time together debating over books and movies, with Zephar somewhat predictably sympathizing most often with the villains rather than the heroes. He’d upheld his decision not to attempt to engage her in sexual relations, though Jake was certain that even a blind person would be aware of the searing heat of thwarted longing and hopeless devotion in the demon’s gaze whenever he beheld or spoke of his lady. “And don’t pout. You’d like her a lot less if she were less dedicated and thorough with her work.”

“But all work and no play makes Amelia a very tired albeit still hot coroner lady, and Zephar a very bored demon. There are drink specials at Sérénité, and a fairly well known singer by the name of Lorelei. I think we should go and visit. Maybe Sylvie will even fix us up some dirty rice. It would be fun.”

“All right, as long as you don’t get yourself in any trouble. I’m sick of watching Riverdale with you, not going to lie. This will be a nice change.”

“BITE YOUR TONGUE, BLASPHEMER! Cheryl Blossom is my spirit animal, I’ll have you know!”

****

And this is the end!!

... Except, not really. Because there is an epilogue of sorts, dedicated to Elianthos, to give some closure of sorts for Amelia and Zephar.


	17. Epilogue: Dawning

It had been perhaps six months, two weeks and a couple of days since her mysterious fainting spell at the morgue, and in the interim, they’d become friends, of a fashion. Amelia had never quite had a friend like Zephar before, and that was before she’d had a complete grasp of the truth about who-- _what_ , indeed-- he was.

Amelia Millbrook never had many illusions about who-- _what_ \-- she was, herself. A quiet, bookish woman who’d known all her life that she’d enter the medical profession in some capacity, whose combination of studious brain and crippling shyness as a teenager had precluded her from joining in on many of her peers’ social activities. She’d gradually opened up a little in college, though she’d been a full two years younger than her peers in the dorms, and learned the art of socializing without being anxious about the perceptions of other people in the group. However, she had never been the sort to attract the attention of gorgeous, confident young men who lounged about in designer suits, whose very voices vibrated with seductiveness and a sort of wicked indolence. She’d known, vaguely, that Zephar was Jake’s friend and roommate, and Jake was on cordial terms with her, someone who’d always played it straight with her in their extended professional dealings as Coroner and Homicide Detective. That Zephar would focus his energies on her of all people was as flattering as it was alarming. And then she’d passed out at work and come to an indeterminate amount of time later, being held tight by strong arms, and she was almost certain that his eyes had a gleam of red in them when she’d first caught his gaze, that his teeth had elongated into the sharp, ripping canines of a predator. But even as consciousness returned gradually, so that impression retreated with it, until the only mysteries left were why he was there, holding her tight as though he couldn’t bear to let her go… and why, though her cheek was pressed against his chest, she couldn’t make out his heartbeat.

And then he’d come to her home with flowers and a bona fide good witch to ward it from evil, and nearly killed himself in the process, and it was only then, after a hurried conversation with Melusine that he’d been too out of it to overhear, that she knew the real truth about Zephar. “He’s immortal, immoral and has terrorized the world for centuries. And yet, for whatever reason, he’s not without redeeming qualities, not the least of which seem to be a soft spot for you. If he were just a man, I’d say he’s a man in love,” Melusine had said with an enigmatic little smile on her lovely face. “It’s a good experience for him, I daresay, whether or not he understands it completely.”

Amelia had been reasonably certain that she could have signaled a foundering ship or started a fire with the heat and force of her blush, but she made a point to inquire after Zephar’s well-being a few days later when she spoke to Jake again. And then, after the case was closed and everything was back to a relative state of normalcy, she’d struck up something akin to a friendship with Zephar. They watched movies and shared dinners and talked about books together, and he would never so much as kiss her cheek, or hold her hand, his physical distance at odds with the searing heat in those hypnotic green eyes whenever he gazed upon her face. She spent a good several hours in the library, reading on demonology lore, and extrapolating just who Zephar was, the scope of it, and justified the exercise to herself-- what difference was it, after all, from stalking a potential love interest’s social media? Not that Zephar had made any efforts to, well, hit on her outside of making flirtatious remarks. For lack of a better and less vulgar term. Some days, in fact, she could almost convince herself that his interest in her was almost academic in nature. Perhaps she was just a novel departure from-- whatever acquaintances he might have had in Hell.

And then one day, after a few glasses of wine, she’s just brave and just curious enough to confront him with it.

**

“Why do you call me Dr. Darling, Zephar?”

He pauses, and she can almost see the conscious decision he makes in the stiff lines of his shoulders and back, as he sets his own wineglass down on her coffee table and stares at her with green eyes once again showing just a flush of red. She’s baiting a bear; he’s not her friend, not really. But she knows, beyond any doubt, that he wouldn’t harm her. It’s as true and irrefutable as the Second Law of Thermodynamics. So she pushes on, because she’d just passed her twenty-ninth birthday a month ago, and it’s high time for her to be brave.

“Logically, I can infer that it’s a sort of affectionate nickname, perhaps because I have a medical degree. But I don’t quite understand why you would befriend me to begin with. I’m rather introverted and boring, and undoubtedly you can keep far more fascinating company than myself.” The flush of her cheeks is unfortunate, and she feels it even more intensely underneath his heated stare, but determination had put her through close to ten years of schooling and any number of grisly autopsies, and she soldiers on. “I can’t quite draw the conclusion that you’re flirting with me, because even with my relative lack of experience, a man who is romantically or sexually interested in a woman would be a bit more-- physical.” His breath escapes in a hiss, and she bites her lip. “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable, or put you on the spot. But I’m all but dying of curiosity at what your true intentions are. Hopefully you consider us to be on good enough terms to tell me.” Now, as though they’re water flowing from a broken dam, the words come rushing out, from a trickle to a flood. “I know who you are. I don’t care that you’ve done some questionable things in the past, because you’ve never been that way, in all the time I’ve known you. But precisely because you’re, well-- you’re a highly-ranked demon from Hell, let’s be honest-- it makes no sense for you to associate with me in the way that you have. I doubt you have any practical use for befriending a County Coroner, and you’ve shown no real inclination in pursuing any other sort of relationship. And yet you spend time with me, and you’ve even gotten injured-- quite seriously-- on my behalf, to keep me safe. Everything’s a contradiction that I can’t quite make sense of…”

She lets out a squeak then, because suddenly she’s clasped in his arms, much like that disastrous episode at her office, her burning face muffled against fine linen and expensive cologne and heat. He runs hot-- almost feverishly so-- and to her surprise, his body is shaking with exertion, as though he’s trying to hold some part of himself at bay. A laugh, rueful and low and almost eerie, sounds by her temple, but she still doesn’t feel his heartbeat underneath her cheek.

“So you know who I am, because my lovely Dr. Darling is nothing if not thorough.” He cups the nape of her neck with one slim hand, and for just a minute, she thinks she can feel the scrape of sharp nails against her skin, just enough to cause a shiver to work its way down her spine. “I can’t lie and say that I’m not relieved, though I would have thought you would have run, screaming, from the revelation.” He draws back just enough for Amelia to get a good look at his face, and the familiar, androgynously beautiful features take on a sinister, otherworldly air-- there’s the nebulous outline of curving horns and dark raven-like wings, which vanishes in a blink of an eye. “I am no good for anyone, love. Least of all, you. I’ve destroyed quite a few men and women’s lives before, you know.” The words escape in a sinuous hiss, and Amelia should, by all rights, be terrified. “By killing them. By cheating them out of everything they owned, including their immortal souls. By torturing them in Hell-- though that, of course, is after the end of their lives. By fucking them, even. Just the act of no-strings-attached sexual intercourse with me renders a partner barren, or sterile, life-spans cut shorter by the experience of lying with someone who is damned. And I’ve done that, with little regret, to satiate my own appetites.” His fingers cup her cheek, then, and she raises her gaze to his, which is desolate and hot in equal measure. “I couldn’t ruin you, pretty Dr. Darling, in that way. You… you’re too important to me.” He dips his head down, and brushes the lightest, chastest of kisses against her lips, softer than a landing snowflake. “So I’ll keep my desires at bay, even though I can’t remember ever, after millennia of living, wanting a woman the way I want you.”

She knows, on a logical level, that he means well, which is almost certainly as much of a novel experience for him as this whole-- not-quite-friendship-relationship-- is for her. But she has as much agency in her fate as he does, at least in this mortal plane of existence, and now that she’s dug in this far into that well-spring of courage, she finds it in herself to continue, and tips her face up, kisses him back a little harder than he’d kissed her. It’s slightly awkward, because he isn’t expecting it and so their noses bump for a moment, but she perseveres, fingers tangling in golden hair softer and warmer than a kitten’s pelt, and a groan rumbles in his throat as he nips her lower lip with his teeth, not hard enough to break the skin. His mouth trails a leisurely path from hers to her cheek, then her jaw. “I’m not going to shag you,” he rasps against the skin of her neck, almost as though trying to remind himself as much as her. “I’m _not_.”

“You don’t have to.” Is that truly her voice, speaking those words? Sometimes, Amelia thinks deliriously as her hands clutch at his shoulders for some form of stability, she shocks even herself. But he stills, mouth still parted against her skin, hands frozen at her waist. Time seems to slow to a crawl as he lifts his head, eyes blazing red-green, and then a feral grin which should petrify her crosses those almost-too-full lips.

“I _don’t_ have to. Do you know what you’re asking of me, Dr. Darling, truly?” One of his hands toys with the bottom hem of her t-shirt-- she’s not dressed up for seduction, the sudden thought crosses her mind-- even as the other picks up her own hand, caresses fingers more accustomed to the grip of a scalpel than the press of someone else’s palm. This is surely just lust, she thinks. A natural biological reaction to the presence of an attractive member of the appropriate gender, and certainly, she’s entitled.

She can’t find the words, for they tangle in her throat, but she kisses him again, and he lifts her without breaking the contact of their lips. He’s never been in her bedroom, but he makes a beeline for it as though he’d walked that path a million times, and sets her down on her covers. “I’m not taking my clothes off for this,” he tells her in a matter-of-fact manner even as those clever fingers find the skin of her waist underneath her t-shirt. “I was never good at self-control. One must take some precautions.”

A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up between her lips, and then her shirt goes flying over her head, muffling the sound. Her body’s in good shape from a healthy lifestyle and a disciplined workout regimen of swimming and light cardio a few times a week, but she’s aware that she is not spectacularly beautiful, in the way of women like Raeanne Huntington. And yet the heat of his gaze is almost a palpable thing as he takes his fill.

“You blush all over. That is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” Her jeans go the way of her t-shirt, and his fingers trail over her calves, lingering at the backs of her knees. “Literally all over. Down to your toes.”

“Yes well I’ve nev-- this is not an activity which I engage in with any amount of frequency.” Her words sound prim and stilted to her own ears, but instead of being met with derision, there’s something akin to delight in his face when he hears them. He doesn’t make any effort to remove her underthings, but he kisses her forehead, then her mouth, and traces his fingertips over the slopes of her shoulders, then the delicate curves of her collarbones.

“Mmm. Maybe I’ll ruin you for anyone else, after all. Of a fashion.” His lips skim over her skin, hot and feather-light, before he raises fierce ruby-green eyes to her face. “You’ll never make love to anyone else without remembering tonight, with me.”

**

Amelia wakes up to the grey-rose light of pre-dawn peeping through the vertical blinds, body weak and languid as water under the sheets. She’d fallen asleep some indeterminate hour late last night, limp and completely boneless, every nerve ending on fire underneath her skin after too many orgasms to keep track of. Zephar had indeed kept every single article of his clothing on, even through the most heated of moments-- his head between her legs, sipping like she was an oasis in the desert, his elegant fingers pressing and skimming and pinching by turns. He’s still there, half-seated, hair a glowing unruly halo around his striking face, and she wonders if he ever sleeps.

“No,” he seems to sense her drowsy inner thoughts, and his lips, still slick and swollen, curve up in a smile more gentle and affectionate than she’d ever seen. “Evil never rests, as they say. I can wreak a whole lot more havoc than I have been if I’d wanted to, since I have a full twenty-four hours of the day to my command, but it would give Jake cause to complain even more than he does now, and he’s already as bad as someone’s fussy sixty-year-old maiden aunt.”

She’s too tired to banter, and simply shakes her head, throwing an arm around his midsection as her eyes fall closed again. Her alarm’s not set to go off for another hour or so, and her fingers find his by touch alone, giving them a squeeze for a moment before her grip slackens. She’s quite sure that he’s right in what he had said last night-- that if she were ever to make love to anyone else, this night would be the measure by which any such encounter would be judged, even if they had never had sexual intercourse in the strictest definition of the word. But a part of her knows, also, that this moment right now, in the pre-dawn stillness, is new to him as well. A brief respite, before reality returns. A sleepy cuddle with no other thought or purpose than sharing space and comfort with someone loved.

Slowly, in a testing sort of way like a newborn fawn might try out its delicate legs for the first time, he slumps down so that he’s lying rather than sitting, and pulls her close so that her head nestles into the crook of his neck. She still can’t hear or feel his pulse underneath her ear, but the gentleness of his fingers carding through her hair lulls her back to sleep all the same.


End file.
